


Remember the Ravenstags: Becoming

by RedFive



Series: Remember the Ravenstags [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Abigail is Will's little sister, Alternate Universe, American Football, Cancer, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal is Still a Sadist, Hannibal is not a killer, Homophobic Language, Inspired by the New England Patriots, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mischa Lives, Non-Consensual Kissing, PlaidScarf, Slow Burn, Traumatic Injury, Underdog Story, Unhealthy Addictions to Kale, Will is a gigantic nerd, aka Will/Dimmond, but meet my new favorite side ship, enemesies to attraction, fictional sports teams, hannigram is OTP, hannigram is endgame, spot the sci-fi references, weaponized coors light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFive/pseuds/RedFive
Summary: Three time Super Bowl champion Hannibal Lecter is looking for a new weapon on offense after his top three receivers leave the Baltimore Ravenstags during the offseason. Enter fourth year middling wide receiver Will Graham, the only thing Hannibal hates more than losing. Can these two rivals come to grips with their feelings about each other? Or are the Ravenstags’s dreams of a fourth championship sunk!?





	1. Prologue: Draft Day

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE not of gratitude to [the moderator of the MHBB](https://murder-husbands-big-bang.tumblr.com) and [@kkachi35](http://kkachi35.tumblr.com) for their GORGEOUS art. Confession Time: I maaaay have cried seeing the boys on their gear for the first time. You captured everything so perfectly, K! This was a project I've wanted to bring to life for a long time now and I feel honored to have you illustrating it.
> 
> Another giant round of thanks to my betas [@arydishope](https://arydishope.tumblr.com) for making sure my football schemes were all accurate and to [@thez1337](https://thez1337.tumblr.com) who came in like a fourth quarter comeback and edited this 30k beast in two weeks! Y’all were life savers, xoxo. 
> 
> FYI: I had to change Hannibal's and Will's heights for this fic so they could play the style of play best suited to their personalities. Also, some of you will probably notice some real world similarities to the careers of a certain quarterback/wide receiver combo. ;-) What can I say? I wanted to write a hannigram football story, but the New England Patriots beat me to it long ago. 
> 
> And now without further adieu, “meat” your Baltimore Ravenstags!

[](http://78.media.tumblr.com/623cfb77d0263599edba4a06dbb5226d/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o1_500.png)  
[Click to enlarge.](http://78.media.tumblr.com/623cfb77d0263599edba4a06dbb5226d/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o1_500.png)

_“A champion is simply someone who did not give up when he wanted to.”_

Tom Landry, Head Coach of the Dallas Cowboys (1960-1988)  
250 career wins

* * *

“Yes. Yes, thank you ma’am. Yes, you won’t regret this,” Will said unable to keep his voice from cracking on the last two words. He hung up the phone, and dropped it into the nearest chair instead of walking it back to the receiver.

“Will? Was that…,”

Will swallowed and took two deep breaths before turning around to face his mother. He never wanted her to see him shake. It still happened more often than he liked. It was hard not to, given everything that had happened to their family, but he always tried his best for her and Abigail. “That was Coach Du Maurier. She…she wants me to be on the team, Mom.”

His mother smiled. It was a bright but bloody grin, a symptom of the cancer, and Will didn’t mind it one bit. He _loved_ to make her smile. It was all he could do anymore—that and look after Abigail. Mom had stage four lung cancer, and everyone knew there was no such thing as stage five.

“Oh, honey! That’s wonderful! Come. Give your mother a hug.”

Will went to her and leaned over her hospital bed to give her a hug. She felt so small and frail in his arms. It was hard to believe this was the same woman who had worked three jobs to put him and his sister through school. But the war was over. Her cancer had become an occupying force.

“Will? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I’m going to be a Ravenstag!” he said feigning giddiness for her benefit. _But for how long?_ He thought privately.

The odds were not in Will’s favor. He was a seventh round draft pick and playing as a wide receiver for the very first time having failed to attract the attention of any team as a quarterback. Guys like him didn't go far in this businessᾹunless they were Hannibal Lecter, the sixth round Cinderella story—but Will was not him either. Lecter had the prototypical body of an athlete and was a genius on both offense and defense. He had been a champion in college even before he made it to the NFL. Will had no championships to his name. He was just a camp body, nothing more—some gimmick prospect to give the more experienced receivers more competition.

Oh shit…

Oh shit! He was going to be playing alongside Lecter! Shit. Shit. Shit! _What if he doesn't like me?_ He found himself worrying and then mentally kicked himself. What was he thinking? It didn't matter whether Lecter liked him or not. They were teammates now, but that didn't mean they had to be friends. Christ, this was going to be awkward. _I jacked off to photos of him…like EVERY night of high school._ Shit!

“Will, are you okay? You look flushed.”

“I’M FINE, MOM!”

She chuckled in a way that sounded uncomfortably knowing, and Will had a sneaking suspicion that his sister had ratted him out about his little football crush. Brat.

Oh, what did it matter anyway!? Will was never going to make the team. Receivers like Randall Tier were going to eat him for breakfast. He’d be back home before the season opener. Will dropped into a chair with a tired sigh.

Sensing a change in the wind, his mother picked up his hand and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “I remember when your entire hand could fit in my palm. Look at you now, my son...my little boy. You’re all grown up. Oh, I can't wait to see you take the field in that uniform!” she said; however, her voice cracked on the word “see” betraying her fear.

“I know,” Will whispered.

“No, you don’t. They’re just words when you say them. They don’t actually mean anything to you, but they will,” she said and pinched him on the cheek with her other hand.

He smiled and meant it this time. “I never could hide anything from you.”

“Look at me.”

Will obeyed and tried to focus on his mother’s words instead of the burst vein in her right eye.

“I believe in you. Abigail believes in you. But none of that matters until you learn to believe in yourself. I can’t tell you how to change, Will. God knows I wish I could do that for you. It is just something you’re going to have to discover for yourself,” she said. “Listen to your instincts. You are more of a fighter than you realize. I see it on the field and when you fight with your sister. I see it in your eyes when you’re trying to hide bad news from me. You ARE a fighter, Will. If you remember nothing else, remember that when I'm gone."

“Mom….”

“But enough of this maple syrup!” she said grinning at her favorite terrible joke. “Turn up the television. I want to hear them say your name.”

Will picked up the remote and cranked the volume up until he was sure the audio could be heard three rooms over. He knew it was what she wanted—for the whole world to know what her baby boy had done. He was getting out of the backwater boat yards of Greenville and headed for stardom in her mind.

“With the two hundred and thirty second pick of the draft, the Baltimore Ravenstags select Will Graham out of LSU.”

His mother squeezed his hand. “Prove them wrong, Will. Prove them wrong and never look back.”


	2. Three Years Later

Sunlight flickered across the set of chrome letters fixed above the entrance to the Baltimore facilities, which read:

Adapt. Evolve. Become.

They were loaded words with personality, point of view, agenda, and the foundation of the dynasty Coach Du Maurier and... _Hannibal_ had achieved in Baltimore. Words, which only members of THIS team, a team Will had waited his whole life to be a part of, ever truly understood.

_Adapt. Evolve. Become._

  * Adapt because the only guarantee in life was change.
  * Nothing could beat what was constantly evolving.
  * No one that lost ever became a legend.



Win or die, it was the Ravenstag way.

_Adapt. Evolve._ **_Become._ **

Will looked at those words; looked at his life choices up to this point; and decided that two out of three was acceptable. It wasn't _great_ , but it wasn’t bad either. It was rare for a player to achieve all three in Baltimore. Many were released because the Ravenstags had no tolerance for failure, incompetence, or misplaced trust. If you did not perform as expected—meaning, if you did not excel—you were cut, given what money you were guaranteed, and shown hastily out the back door.

That could have been Will. For three years, he had waited for his name to be called to Coach Du Maurier’s office for what seemed like an inevitable conversation, but the summons never came. Against all odds, the former quarterback and current middling wide receiver, had hung on to a roster spot by the skin of his teeth. He had done it; he had proved them wrong. Will Graham was a success story.

So why didn’t he feel like one?

At 5’9” Will was never meant to play quarterback at a pro level despite playing admirably as a three year starter at Louisiana State University. He just simply didn't have the height to play like the pros wanted him to no matter how much heart he poured into the game. So as the 2010 draft approached and not one scout from any of the thirty-two NFL teams had come around, he had thrown his very last Hail Mary pass as a quarterback and declared for the draft as a wide receiver.

The absurdity of the stunt was enough to attract looks, but it was that or...well, he didn't want to think about what might have been if he had returned home to Greenville four years ago, repaired boat motors or something. Abigail would never have gone to Harvard, their mom would still be dead, and Will didn’t know if he could have lived with himself.

Will knew his strengths as intimately as he knew his many weaknesses. He was fast; he’d had to be to avoid getting pulverized when the pocket collapsed. He thrived under pressure because with his offensive line at LSU, he had _always_ been under pressure. An offensive lineman’s job was to defend the quarterback and create a pocket of protected space for him to throw from. But Will’s OL? HAH! They were offensive alright—an offense to every fan of LSU’s football program thanks to their poor play.

Then there was Will’s special talent—the one he had inherited from his mother. As a hospice nurse for over thirty years, his mother had had a preternatural ability to read people and provide them what comfort or space they needed. In Will, that empathy manifested on the field. He could deconstruct any defensive formation from the line of scrimmage and had a knack for seeing opportunities two seconds before they happened. Two seconds didn't seem like a lot of time, but it was enough when the game was on the line. It was enough to squeak by.

For three seasons and three failed championship runs, the seventh round draft pick out of Louisiana had squeaked by while more hyped players floundered and failed in the Fibonacci sequence that was Bedelia Du Maurier’s system—lot of good it had done him. The Ravenstags had made the playoffs every year, but they had never closed the deal during Will’s tenure. They had _almost_ won it all last year, almost, but then Randall dropped the game ball in the end zone on the last play of Super Bowl 48 and dumped the Ravenstags in the offseason for the reigning Super Bowl Champions, the Red Dragons.

Everyone had their own way of becoming, Will supposed. The Red Dragons were Randall’s. Will just wished he could find his own.

“Enough of that maple syrup,” he grumbled and adjusted the strap of his gym bag.

Will walked through the front doors of the Ravenstags training facilities and passed beneath those three magic words feeling thin and conflicted about the battles ahead. The countdown had officially begun on the 2013 season. It was “Go” time.

...

Will made a habit of coming to work earlier than _almost everyone_. No one beat Coach Du Maurier or Hannibal to the facilities, but he would be nuts to try. Neither individual seemed like they slept much as evidenced by their near constant irritability. Actually, it was questionable whether they were even human. Will was pretty sure Hannibal was Satan himself, a belief he had formed early on during the first three WEEKS of their professional acquaintance. It was a disappointing end to a decade of idol worship. What Will had once viewed as Hannibal’s competitive fire was really just spite and malice obscured by a football helmet and a pretty face.

Will dressed for the work in a plain tech shirt and shorts, unbranded because he wasn't famous enough to merit an endorsement deal. On the plus side, that meant that Will could wear what was comfortable and cheap and not what lined his pockets. However, he’d gladly put up with a little chaffing if it meant he didn’t have to worry about Abigail’s tuition next year. Alas, the only way that was going to happen was if he could defy the odds once more and get re-signed by the Ravenstags in the offseason, which meant he better get to work.

Will had a lot of reasons for coming in so early. First, burpees were a far better wake up than coffee and easier on the kidneys. The quiet also helped him switch out of “worry mode” and into “work mode.” Lastly, he was embarrassed...embarrassed because he was a wide receiver who began each morning running himself _through quarterback drills_.

Part ritual, part practicality, Will may have set aside his dreams of being a pro quarterback, but setting aside his method had been a lot harder. Since he was thirteen, each day had begun in exactly the same way: drills from the pocket, drills on the run, drills for agility, and drills for strength. He practice dropping back and stepping up with a pigskin in hand. He relived his wins. He relived his losses. Sometimes he relived Hannibal’s games for a variety of reasons (mostly spite), and always ended his workout in the weight room strengthening both arms with the same sets he used to apply only to his throwing arm.

The benefits of maintaining these practices were not just mental either. Adapting to the receiver position had changed Will’s body physically, and not all those changes were ones Will approved of. The program Coach Du Maurier had him on added fifteen pounds of muscle onto his already small frame in that first year alone. It had been frightening to say the least, adapting to someone else's vision for him. Every day Will had gone to bed feeling like he had lost a little more mobility than he’d possessed the day before. While his new power and strength allowed him to be more physical on the field, it hadn't felt right for him personally. Will knew he couldn't compete with the rest of the receiving corps on their level. He just didn't have the experience or raw talent. He was a hybrid, which was okay. That’s what made him interesting. It was his golden ticket, and as much as he respected Coach Du Maurier, Will had a higher obligation to himself. _Trust your instincts,_ his mother had said when advice was all she had left to bequeath him.

So Will had changed up his routine without consultation beginning each day with drills that would keep him loose and pliable. Some drills were his, and some he had yoinked from watching Hannibal's practices. If Coach knew what Will was up to in the wee hours of the morning, she never asked and Will never offered to explain himself.

He almost never got through the entire routine before the rest of his teammates showed up, but today, everyone was late for some reason. Will even had time to put in twenty minutes on the treadmill before nerves, not necessity, forced him to wrap it up. He hopped off the equipment, checked his messages to see if there were any new ones from his sister, and put his phone away for the day.

The locker room was packed when he joined the others. Every man sat huddled over someone else's phone talking worriedly among each other.

“What’s going on?” Will asked as he pitched his stuff into his locker.

Brian Zeller, his neighbor in the locker room and the team’s outside receiver, choked on his sports drink spewing blue Gatorade all over their other teammate in the receiving corps, Jimmy Price. “You’re joking, right? You HAVE to be joking. How could you miss it!? It has literally been all over the news!”

Will shrugged and sat down to exchange his tennis shoes for his cleats. “You know I listen to my audiobooks in the mornings. What happened? Why is everyone upset?”

“JIMMY! Jimmy! He doesn't know! Can you believe this guy?! You explain it because I just can’t...can’t get over how much of an idiot he is!!!”  Zeller wailed and threw his hands in the air.

“Garrett, it’s Garett, Will. He was arrested last night...for murder,” Price explained.

Will laughed. “Hahahaha! Yeah, okay. Good one, Jimmy. And I suppose Hannibal has finally admitted that he is the goddamn Batman,” but no one was laughing at his joke.

“The cops arrested Garret last night after a receiving a tip that he was disposing of evidence,” Jimmy continued.

Reality hit Will with the force of a linebacker. “Christ, you’re not kidding.”

Zeller plopped down onto the bench looking far too excited for the news he was breaking. “Yeah and get this: they’ve even got video of him at a gas station one mile away from where the body was found. He gets out of the car whistling Dixie like he doesn't have another care in the world after he kills some woman and dumps her body at a construction site.”

“Allegedly.”

“Allegedly killed,” Brian amended

“It gets worse,” Jimmy said.

“Hey! I'm getting to that. Can it,” Zeller snapped.

“I thought you didn't want to explain it to the numskull.”

“I changed my mind! Anyway, it does get worse, a lot worse. They think he killed two other women last year, which is why the cops moved on him last night when he was dumping the evidence.”

“Garrett? Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Our tight end. A serial killer?” Will said in disbelief. It was beyond imaging. Hobbs was a loner (and boring) but not a creep.

“YES! Why else would we be freaking out like this!?” Zeller said motioning to the rest of the locker room. “I tell you, you think you know a guy…”

“They say that psychopaths look like everyone else,” Jimmy said.

Will didn't care whether or not Garett Jacob Hobbs was a psychopath; there was a more immediate problem facing the Ravenstags with their first game only two days away and their #1 receiver under arrest for serial murder. With Randall’s departure, Garrett had been expected to step up and headline in the new offense. Meanwhile, their second best receiver went down during training camp with an ACL injury and was gone for the rest of the year. “What does this do to our season?”

Zeller shrugged. “Sinks it would be my guess. With Miggs out and Hobbs in lock-up, it's up to you, me, Jimmy and the rookie unless Coach can pull a rabbit out of a hat who can also catch a football. Geez, Randall could not have picked a worse time to ditch us for the damn Dragons.”

“Spoken like an idiot with three years left on his rookie contract assuming they even pick up your fifth year option, Z. Randall knew what he had to do in this business. Don't judge a man for wanting to get paid.” Jimmy said. He was the veteran of the group with nine years experience and three teams under his belt.

“He was going to get paid! Even at thirty-two, he’s too good not to. He didn't have to go to our rival!”

Jimmy and Will looked at each other. He was a good kid, naive, but a good kid; however, it was so much easier for Brian as a first round draft pick.  He was an investment project and not as vulnerable as Will or Jimmy. Even a single subpar performance on game day could be the difference between life and death in terms of place on the payroll. He and Jimmy, not so much. Jimmy was on the wrong side of thirty-five, and one major injury away from retirement. Will, well, even after three years, Will was still a nobody—just a seventh round draft pick with some skill at punt returning but few achievements to his name.

“Where’s Hannibal?” Will asked redirecting the conversation towards someone who was even more unpleasant than Randall Tier but also of more immediate use to them all.”

“His highness has been closeted inside the office with Coach all morning.”

“How pissed is he?”

“Ohhhh, nuclear. Tread carefully, my friends. The Ripper is on the war path today.”

“Thanks. I’ll try not to get disemboweled,” Will said although he wasn't sure that was possible. He had a God-given talent at getting underneath Hannibal’s skin even when that wasn’t his intent.

“See that you do,” Jimmy cut in. “We can't lose anymore guys. Anyway, you’re just in a time to hear Brian tell us how he went on a blind date with his cousin last night.”

“ _Second cousin!_ And I didn't know till I got to the club! It was a set up!”

“Your brothers again?” Will asked. Brian was the middle child of a family of three boys, and a homegrown hero. He graduated from Dunbar high school here in the city. But pro-stardom hadn't granted him any reprieve from his brothers as far as Will had seen.

“Who else? You know, this wouldn't have happened if you would come out with me. I need a wingman, Will. Why do you have to be such a priest all the time?”

Will bent down to return his sneakers to his gym bag, avoiding direct eye contact with Brian and Jimmy. “You know it's not my thing. Why don't you come with me to a comic book convention some time? They have speed dating. I’ll even pay for your admission.”

“Neeeeeerd,” Brian wailed to Will’s relief. Better the team think him horribly bookish than finding out his other secret. Will didn't think guys like Jimmy and Brian would give him a hard time about being gay. They were decent guys and good friends, but every team was different and League-wide the NFL remained a hostile environment for gay players. To say nothing of the media who sensationalized everything and destroyed lives and careers in the process.

“Leave him alone,” Jimmy said sternly. “Will’s a smart kid. He doesn't want to get busted at some nightclub during a contract year. He’s got his family to think about.”

At that moment, the door to the coaching offices opened as Coach Du Maurier entered the locker room with Hannibal Lecter in tow. Bedelia Du Maurier was a legend. She was a small woman, hawkish in appearance and poise. At forty, she already had five championships to her name (three as head coach) and a long career ahead of her unless she got tired of winning and retired early. She was the first and only female coach to have ever served as a head coach in the NFL, and she wore all six distinctions with a haughty pride that bordered on unbearable.

Cell phones disappeared into pockets instantly as her eyes scanned the room. “Good morning, everyone. Are you ready to get to work?” She said calmly dismissing the elephant in the room with ten flicks of her tongue.

The players mumbled their various responses and shuffled into their individual groups on both offense and defense. His lordship did not deign to join his receivers that day. Hannibal stood straight backed and stuck to Coach Du Maurier’s shoulder looking more like her attack dog than her employee.

“There has been a slight change to the game plan for Sunday. Will Graham?”

Will was unable to keep his eyebrows still as he rose to his feet, an expression of alarm warring with a sense of excitement. “Yes, Coach?”

“You will take reps with first team from today on, reporting directly to me and Ms. Katz instead of special teams.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“As for the _incident_ that has occurred, you will not discuss it with anyone except law enforcement. I expect you to be honest, but I also expect you to give me your full attention this season. And if ANYONE speaks to the media about Garret, you will be promptly shown the door. Do I make myself clear?”

“YES COACH!” the team shouted as one, excluding Hannibal.

“I understand that the next few weeks will be difficult for some of you. It is a terrible thing that has happened, truly the ugliest thing in the world. Your values and decency must be shocked. You will be appalled at your dreams, but if you do not make room for my play calling in the bone arena of your skull, I will make you pay,” Coach Du Maurier warned.

With that, the lesson ended. Section leaders came by and sat with each division of the team to discuss the changes. Afterwards, the team gathered as a whole to review the new script as Coach Du Maurier broke down the strength and weaknesses of their upcoming opponent. Not a word of Garret Jacob Hobbs was spoken, not even a whisper. It was as if he had never existed to begin with. That's how player dismissal always went; however, from the vantage of his new roster spot, Will felt Hobbs’ presence like a ghost. Hobbs had to kill a man to get cut, but Will suspected it would be a lot easier for a guy like him to be given the boot.


	3. Week One

[](http://78.media.tumblr.com/a4ca576fe91dafe39b3ff6504f1e2b4b/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o4_250.png)   
[Click to enlarge.](http://78.media.tumblr.com/a4ca576fe91dafe39b3ff6504f1e2b4b/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o4_250.png)

“Why does Jack Crawford hate us?” Brian whined... _again._

The three receivers sat on a bench roasting under the Miami sun. Road games were always brutal, but road games against the Miami Whalers were particularly hellish. The Ravenstags were a cold weather team and not prepared for a blistering ninety degree day in September.

“I can give you three reasons: 2001, 2003, and 2004,” Brian said, rattling off the years of the last three Ravenstag championships before pouring a bottle of water over his head to cool off. “Can you imagine what would have happened if we had won last year? He’d have us playing on the sun if it meant he could watch Hannibal burn. That man has had a bee up his butt since Hannibal snubbed him at Fashion Week in 07.”

“Not that again,” Will groaned and pushed his sweat slicked curls away from his face. It was largely rumored that there was some sort of personal vendetta between Jack Crawford, the NFL Commissioner, and Hannibal, the reasons for it being as numerous and unsubstantiated as Elvis sightings. It was more likely that Crawford’s alleged grudge against the Ravenstags, if it existed at all, stemmed from the team’s decade of dominance over the other thirty-one teams despite the Commissioner's efforts to establish competitive parity across the League. “Haven’t you had enough of that _Tattle Ball_ garbage yet?” Will said bravely. It was absurd to think that Jack Crawford had it in for the team because of the success they had enjoyed under their current leadership. He was the Commissioner after all! It was his job to be fair and unbiased. But Brian’s concerns were not without _some_ basis. Football was as political as it was physical, and there were thirty-one owners with reasons to want the Ravenstags destroyed. Meanwhile, year-after-year the schedule got slightly harder, the bye weeks happened earlier and earlier, and every loophole in the rulebook that Coach Du Maurier found to exploit, got closed up in the off-season by the Competition Committee. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps Will was feeding off the paranoia of the younger and more excitable players, but perhaps there WAS more to it.

Something big happened on the field. Will needed only to hear the jubilant pitch of the crowd to know that their defense had failed to stop Miami's offense from advancing another ten yards on third down.

“Son of a bitch! Not again!” Brian hollered.

Will sighed. Worrying about Jack Crawford wouldn't do any good if the offense couldn't even make it onto the field.

Football really was a simple game when boiled down to its fundamentals. There were four quarters in a game, twenty two men on the field in total, and each team had four chances to move the ball at least ten yards before they had to hand it over to their opponent. See? Easy. Easy until a game like this. Nothing was working, and Miami’s offense was making mincemeat of their defense.

“What the hell was that!? How did the cornerback not see that pump fake coming!?” a large and booming voice shouted from the Ravenstags’s sideline.

Hannibal Lecter had the defensive coordinator by the lapels of his polo shirt. His mouth was twisted into an open snarl revealing the shark toothed incisors that made him all the more terrifying. At 6”4’ he was taller than most men on the team, but even if he had been only as tall as Coach Du Maurier, Will bet that he could still intimidate the hell out of _everyone._ Hannibal’s on-field fury was as legendary as his titles, but honestly, Will thought that only made him more of a bully.

Will watched and clenched his fists. Their current defensive coordinator was newly risen to the position and had been Will’s Special Teams coach last year. Will liked Benjamin Raspail. Ben was a good and smart man who liked to get to know his players before doing anything fancy with their program. He didn't deserve this treatment, but God help the soul who tried to get between Hannibal and the object of his anger. Beneath those handsome features, there was a demon waiting to devour anyone with the audacity to run a route poorly or fumble the ball.

“HANNIBAL! Cut it out!” Coach Du Maurier snapped.

Hannibal shoved Ben away and stalked over to the water coolers. He noticed Will staring as he walked past and must have sensed his displeasure. The rage drained from his face as he locked eyes with Will; it was replaced with arrogant self-satisfaction. “What are you looking at?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Will said and looked down at the gold numbers on Hannibal's jersey. He avoided eyes whenever possible. Eyes were distracting, and he knew from experience how easy it was to get caught up in the feedback loop that was Hannibal’s emotions. Nothing made Will angrier that Hannibal Lecter, and no one was as angry as Hannibal. It was ironic really. In high school, the handsome and charming Hannibal Lecter was all Will could think about. If Will had known then what he knew now, maybe he would have fallen in love with that sweet boy who worked at the carwash, moved down to New Orleans—away from the backwoods of Louisiana—and started a family. But no, Will had wanted to be a baller. #PoorLifeChoices.

Hannibal stiffened unsure whether his third string receiver had just dared to insult him or not. With the eye-black applied thickly beneath his maroon eyes and his hair streaked in golds and browns, he looked like a tiger that afternoon. “Just be ready to go when I need you, Graham,” he growled and moved on.

Will allowed himself a moment to enjoy the view as he did. That ass of his was still the thing of Will’s boyhood fantasies. It was a shame Hannibal had ruined them all by being such an immeasurable jerk. When Coach Du Maurier had called to tell Will that had been drafted by the Ravenstags, what Will had been most excited about after his paycheck was the thought of finally getting to play football alongside his idol and first crush. But the age old adage proved true: never meet your heroes. Since the start of training camp, he and Hannibal had been at odds. To be fair, Will had made a lot of mistakes in his first year, but if the rumors were true, Hannibal had gone to Coach Du Maurier to personally demand that Will be cut.

But Coach Du Maurier had been too intrigued by her new trick pony to get rid of it so soon, even to please his royal highness, so instead, she stashed Will away on Special Teams where he was less directly in Hannibal’s way. But their relationship hadn’t improved much since.

Will pushed Hannibal from his mind, and focused on the field instead.

At first glance, football might not appear all that sexy or interesting. It was slower than basketball, less elegant than baseball, and only of any real relevance to the ol’ US of A. But the beauty of the game stemmed from the innumerable ways twenty-two men could be arranged to fight it out for control of a field and how passionately they fought for the win. It was a battlefield of only 100 yards, but every home team viewed its field as their kingdom and birthright. So even if the nuances of gameplay were not immediately clear to the viewer, it was the passion of the players that brought excitement to the game one down at a time.

It was second down and long after the Ravenstags defense had broken through Miami’s offensive line forcing a loss of yards on first down. At minimum, Miami would get away with a field goal here and the score would advance to 17-0 at the top of the second quarter, an inauspicious start to the season.

Both teams stood in a huddle discussing their next moves while the game was paused for commercials. Because nothing else was happening on the field, Will’s eyes drifted to the Miami’s sideline scanning the crowd for what he did not know, but Will needed to occupy his mind with something during the break. Then he saw that _something,_ or he thought he did. From this distance, it was difficult to know exactly what he has seen.

Will looked up at the Jumbotron and hoped the camera would pan back over their opponents. Someone had been limping on the sidelines but he hadn’t clocked who it was. It was not until the next break that he found what he was looking for. The camera zoomed in on Miami’s coach and offensive coordinator bickering over their tablets regarding the next play, but behind the two coaches, hiding behind a water cooler with the team doctor was #24, Miami’s star cornerback. The doctor was looking at #24’s shoulder. The extent of his injury was not clearly apparent, but even a mild injury would give him trouble covering his man. Cornerbacks were usually a team's fastest defensive players. It was their job to cover the quick, physical wide receivers who sprinted out ahead of the rest of the offense to catch those deep passes that could turn the tables of a game if you let them. To win against a high scoring offense like the Ravenstags, an opposing defense HAD to limit a quarterback like Hannibal to short yardage gains by neutralizing his receivers with a strong secondary defense which included cornerbacks.

“I got you,” Will grinned and braced himself for the unpleasantness that was about to happen. He got to his feet clutching his helmet by the facemask and walked over to where Hannibal stood. Players and coaching staff alike were giving the quarterback a wide berth, including Coach Du Maurier which was a bad sign.

 _How badly do I want win?_ Will thought to himself, but it was his mother’s voice that answered.

_Prove them wrong, Will. Prove them wrong and never look back._

Well, if he was going to do that, he couldn’t avoid the unpleasant moments, even the ones that included Hannibal Lecter.

“Throw to Zeller on our next drive,” Will said at Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal snorted. “He’s been getting beat all day. The run game is our only hope since you and Price seem incapable of finding the middle.”

Will blushed. Hannibal was not wrong. It had not been a good day for the slot receivers--the receivers who ran routes up the middle of the field--but they were used to having two extra offensive ends making holes for them to slide through. But with Garret in lock-up and the rookie Nicholas Boyle, their second tight end, out with the stomach flu, everything had to be reshuffled.

“Something’s wrong with #24’s shoulder. Could be the rotator cup. He tore it up real good last season.”

“Rivers?”

Will nodded. “Zeller doesn't have his speed, but he’s got height and power over the corner. If he pushes off there's nothing Rivers can do to stop him from breaking away. You can’t bring down what you can't hold. Throw the ball to Zeller.”

“We'll draw a penalty if we do as you suggest.”

“Since when do you follow orders? _Maybe_ we will draw the penalty, but it’s worth a shot! The defense has our number so let’s show them the number of the beast at least. Throw the damn ball, Hannibal, and put the fear of God into them!”

Hannibal looked at the scoreboard and tapped his lips in thought. “It is not what Coach Du Maurier would recommend,” he said referring to the coach's insistence on measured, disciplined football, but Will knew he had hooked his fish with all that God talk. A narcissist like Hannibal Lecter couldn't resist the comparison.

“Trust me.”

“I'll _think_ about it.”

Will backed off and waited for the offense’s turn.

The Ravenstag defense held Miami to a field goal as he had predicted; the score was 20-0. Will was disappointed to see Hannibal waste his first two downs on their running backs in direct opposition to Will’s advice. Then on third and long, Hannibal called an audible pre-snap and tweaked Coach Du Maurier’s orders in the Ravenstags’ personal coded language.

“Reverse stet. Shortie right. Louge! 52! Louge!” he shouted from the line of scrimmage, where the offensive and defensive lines squared off.

Will’s ears pricked up. Play calling was a language unto itself and each team spoke their own dialect to disguise their meaning from opposing defenses. Hannibal’s command translated to: _Abandon the run. Graham, jet sweep to the right and distract the defense. Go long, Zeller! Ready? Long!_

Will leapt into action and tore across the field behind the line of scrimmage to draw some of the defenders away. He looked over his shoulder making eye contact with Hannibal as the ball was snapped to better sell the deception and give Zeller more time. Hannibal played along until the last second, pivoted, and then threw the ball downfield.

An angry roar erupted in Miami Stadium as Zeller made the catch. Will pumped his fist in the air and cheered as Zeller ran ten yards...twenty yards...thirty….TOUCHDOWN RAVENSTAGS!

As Will trotted downfield he felt a light pat on the ass, which he thought nothing of until Hannibal trotted past. Will laughed. It was as much of a thank you as he was ever likely to get from that turd, and the first in Will’s memory. That jerk. Still...it was nice to feel useful.

For the rest of the afternoon, Will had greater success moving the ball on short passes now that Miami had to put two men on Zeller to keep him out of the end zone. That opened up opportunities elsewhere for Hannibal and his offense. At the end of the fourth and final quarter, the score was 23-24, Ravenstags.

Coach Du Maurier entered the locker room flanked by her coaching staff and walked over to Hannibal’s locker. Many of the younger players pushed forward to receive her praise and jockey for prime positioning in the team photos; Will remained at his locker. Coach Du Maurier’s speech would be short and clinical. Only decisive victories got celebrated in Baltimore; the rookies were too new to know that a game like this only meant extra time in the film room next week. Will stood because it was expected of him and would holler on queue like all the rest, but he wasn't feeling the win. In his mind, Will had already moved on to next week and what he would need to do to improve his game in order to get that contract at the end of the season.

“Good job today, team,” Coach Du Maurier began. “Obviously, I would have liked to win with a little more style than this, but a win's a win. Today’s game ball goes to his royal highness, Hannibal Lecter. He knows how much I hate it when he abandons my game plan, but today the king has earned his due,” she said making light of the team tradition of jokingly treating Hannibal like royalty because of the rumor that he really was a count in exile.

Hannibal stood and received the ball from Coach Du Maurier with a gracious nod that made him look princely. The posturing made Will’s heart flutter a little despite his continued ill regard of the man. Will squeezed the emotion out of his chest as soon as he felt it rising. He refused to go back to the days of fawning over every little twitch and hair flip of Hannibal ‘goddamn’ Lecter, knowing what he did now about the man’s true nature.

“Enjoy the win, men, but do _NOT_ get carried away tonight,” Hannibal said. We do not tolerate distractions in Baltimore. If I see any of you in _Tattle Ball_ tomorrow, you will answer directly to me before I give you to Coach Du Maurier if there is anything left for her to flay alive.”

Will huffed and smiled as that oh-too familiar feeling of annoyance replaced attraction in his heart. There he stood in all his stuck-up glory: the real Hannibal Lecter. There was a reason why he was known throughout the league as the Chesapeake Ripper. Truthfully, Hannibal was no prince. He was psychopath and a brute, and Will hated that he still wanted any part of that monster. Fortunately, whenever Will felt in danger of being overcome by his inconvenient feelings, Hannibal usually showed his claws, reminding Will that his good looks and model smiles were just for show.

The group broke apart and bolted for the showers. Those that had press conferences to attend to were given leeway to jump the line.

Will hung back and waited for the chaos to die down. In the meantime, he riffled through his bag looking for his phone and headset.

“Will,” a voice said. It was Joel, the quarterbacks coach. “Hannibal asked me to give this to you. He said you gave him some good advice. Good job!”

And then Will was accepting a game ball in his hands, his very first. “Thank you,” he said, stunned.

“Don’t thank me, but maybe don't thank Hannibal either. He’s in one of his moods today.”

“When is he not?” Will complained as he tucked the ball away.

“2003,” Joel sighed referring to the team’s last Championship win and the ten year specter of a fourth Super Bowl ring that hung over Hannibal’s career like a storm cloud.

“Thanks Joel. Thanks for being there for him. I bet you don't hear that enough.”

Joel laughed and grabbed his belly. “Are you kidding me? I don't hear that ever! You’re a good kid, Will. Be sure to tell your parents I said that. They raised a fine young man.”

Will kept his face as still as a mirror at the mention of his parents. His father's abandonment and mother’s death were not things he liked to talk about with anyone other than family. “I'll do that sir,” he said and dug his fingers into the hard leather of the football.

“You know he wasn’t always like this, right?”

“Who? Hannibal?”

“Yeah,” Joel said with a sad smile. “He used to be different, a good kid if always a _little_ twisted. You remind me of him actually.”

“Oh God, say it ain't so, Joel!”

But Joel didn't laugh along with him. “Be careful, Will. I’d hate you see you turn sour like him. That boy could be the greatest if only he could learn to love the game again...or love at all.”


	4. Catfished

After the game, Will stuffed his prize into his bag and rushed through his postgame routine. He didn't even wait for the team bus, just called an Uber to take him back to the hotel.

Like a kid at Christmas, he ran up to his room, unpacked the game ball, and rolled it around in his hands. He was grinning from ear to ear as he tossed the ball lightly into the air, texted a few photos to Abigail, and lay down with it lying against his chest. He replayed his favorite memories from the game, building a highlight reel in his mind that he could return to at any time. It would have been nicer to have scored a touchdown tonight, but this was good too. Will had done something tonight that few people could boast of: tonight he’d given Hannibal, Hannibal Lecter, advice and _he had been listened to._ He had been right and Hannibal had been WRONG! Tonight was his second happiest night as a Ravenstag!

But it was a bittersweet victory.

Will rolled onto his side and curled himself around the ball. _It feels good to be leading a team again,_ he thought with a small pang of sadness for his LSU days. Will didn't regret giving up his quarterbacking dreams, but he didn't necessarily have to like it either. And then there were Joel’s words, which had followed him home like a bad cold. _“There was a time when he was kinda like you.”_ Three years ago those words would have made Will jubilant. Now, they made him shiver. There was no matching Hannibal in skill so if Joel had seen a resemblance, it was probably the same shit that, in time, would twist Will into as ugly a creature as Hannibal.

Will clutched the ball tighter. He played angry. He always had, but unlike Hannibal, Will never showed it on the field (or tried not to anyway.) What good had his anger ever done anyone in his life? Nothing. After his father left, Will had yelled at his mom a lot. Then she got sick and it was Abigail who had gotten the rough side of his tongue. When their mom died and Abigail was all he had left, Will had let his game bear the weight of all his frustration, and that version of himself had only taken him as far as the seventh round of the draft. No, this incurable anger was not the answer to his problems. But pride, dedication, and grit? Those were virtues his family could be proud of. He had to hang on to them and let go of his anger.

His phone chimed out a string of whistles and beeps in whatever language it was that astro droids like R2D2 spoke in the Star Wars universe. Will smiled and drew his phone from his pocket. He swiped through his messages from Abigail as she freaked out in real time.

 

Will closed out of the conversation without dignifying Abigail's last text with a response. Big deal! So what if Will had been hopelessly in love with Hannibal when he was a teenager and Abigail knew it? Will hadn’t realized then what a total ASS he was! Unfortunately, nothing had of yet dissuaded Abigail of her obsession with Will’s former feelings for his current teammate. It was embarrassing on her best days, and HUMILIATING on her worst. Were all little sisters as obnoxious as his or was he just lucky like that?

Will placed the football on the dresser, changed into a pair of slacks and a rumpled plaid shirt, and went to the lobby. He ran into a few of his teammates in the elevator, at least half of them were rookies.

“WILL!!! We’re going to the strip club,” one of the rookies said, already slurring his words from too much alcohol.

“No thanks, guys. I’m grabbing a bite and calling it an early night.”

“OOOOOH! Past your bedtime, old man? Come with us! Put that contract money to good use while you’re still young. Tities, Will!” his teammates jeered.

Will shifted uncomfortably deciding how to navigate this situation. He was not out except to Abigail and his closest friends from college, and he definitely didn’t want to waste another evening pretending to like “tities” when there was gametape he could be reviewing for next week.

“Old man? Are you sure you aren't looking for Hannibal?” he said hoping to distract them with humor.

“Pffft! Maybe...if we were looking to go to an art museum!”

“You’ll be the ones stuffed and put on display if either he or Coach Du Maurier catches you. Sorry, but no. That game is too rich for my blood, boys,” Will said backing away from the group when the doors opened.

The younger men began to boo. “If I’m ever as dull as this faggot, slap me, please!” someone shouted after him.

Will stilled. The slur rang in his ear like a fight bell and unconsciously his right hand balled into a fist. What he wouldn't give to knock that kid’s block off. But there would be no avoiding the questions if Will gave in to his anger here so he did what he always did: he buried his feelings until there was only self-loathing left, and he retreated to the nearest bar.

The hotel bar was a pricey, pretentious spot and nearly empty as a result. Still, it was a good place to hide and that was all Will needed. Given the choice between this and the strip club, Will would drink his whiskey out of a teacup if that's what was required.

He took a seat at the bar and ordered something from the middle shelf. The whiskey didn't arrive in a teacup, but the cut crystal tumbler was bad enough. Will sipped at his drink and looked over the menu. It surprised him to see a few downmarket items numbered among the crostini and amuse-bouchés, but he supposed every hotel restaurant, even a fancy one, would try and cater to an assortment of patrons.

“Men who order their whiskey neat, are usually anything but,” an unfamiliar male voice said.

Will looked left as a well-dressed man with brown hair and a blue scarf slid onto the leather high chair next to him.

“Am I wrong?” the man said smiling over his scotch on the rocks. “Are you neat or are you dirty?”

“I don’t know. I don't get out much,” Will shrugged and hoped that would be the end of it. He was barely social with his teammates; strangers were a nonstarter (even cute ones.)

“Try the catfish,” the man said, “a good ol’ Louisiana boy like yourself must miss it terribly.”

Will slammed the menu shut. “I'm sorry do I know you?” he said with a warning growl. Will was no celebrity by any means, but some football groupies didn't care about a player’s level of fame as long as it came with a jersey.

The man laughed, immune to Will’s threat. “Ouch! You really are sheltered, Will, if you don’t recognize me.”

“Or you’re not as famous as you think.”

“Hmm, your mouth has gotten a lot sharper since we first met. I wonder what _else_ you’ve learned to do with it,” the man purred. “My name is Anthony Dimmond. I'm a journalist for ESPN,” he said offering his hand.

Will took it, but now he was even more concerned. The Ravenstags had a strict policy about talking to reporters outside a player's contractual obligations: **don’t.** “Sorry, I’ve got to go,” he mumbled and flagged the waiter down. “Check please!”

“Now, now, don’t run away. I promise to be on my best behavior! We can even be off the record if you’d like. I just want to talk to you… _for now_.”

Will kicked back his whiskey in one go. “No, thank you. Goodbye, Mr.Dimmond.”

But instead of the check, the bartender brought over another two drinks.

“I ordered them the moment you sat down. Stay, Will. Have one more drink with me and then I promise I'll leave you alone.”

Anthony watched him with a catlike smugness that reminded Will of Hannibal, and perhaps that’s what made Will linger. He could not bring himself to run away with his tail tucked between his legs under that haughty gaze. His pride wouldn't let him do it.

They had another drink and spoke casually about the city instead of football or the Garret Jacobs Hobbs murders. It was pleasant enough that Will found himself ordering another drink.

“I’m not trying to trap you, Will. I just want to talk, off the record, as adults do. God forbid we should become friendly with each other.”

Will wrinkled his nose. He even sounded like Hannibal, pretentious fuck. Perhaps it was all the booze, Will didn't drink much since turning pro, but he suddenly wanted to take Anthony to bed very badly. “Well, I don't find you that interesting,” he said stiffly.

“You will.”

Anthony sad it so confidently that Will felt like throwing his whiskey in his face, but there were other things Will would like to do to that face and they did not involve whiskey.

“I should go,” Will said and snatched his glass up. He didn’t drink it, but he held the glass close to his lips. “Nothing else to say, Mr. Dimmond?”

Anthony smiled. “Nothing, I think I’ve said all that I needed to say. I'm curious about what _you_ will do next, Will.”

Will put the glass down without drinking it. Hanni-, he stopped himself and took a deep boozy breath; _Anthony_ was giving him a choice? It felt strange. How long had it been since Will had made any major decisions for himself. He was a Ravenstag and his sister’s legal guardian. He had priorities and they did not include carrying on with interesting strangers.

“I profiled you after the draft. I hoped you would have remembered me,” Anthony said.

Will looked at Anthony again and admitted that he did look somewhat familiar, like a memory of a foggy day. He remembered the profile though, remembered it sharply. “You called me small _‘even for a wide receiver.’”_

“You ARE small, and a good journalist has a responsibility to report the truth.”

“Clearly you don’t read _Tattle Ball_ then,” Will snorted.

“Freddie Lounds is a cow, NOT a journalist. Easier for her to bribe her way through a back door and rummage through everyone’s garbage than stand by her own words.”

On the subject of Freddie Lounds, he and Anthony agreed, but Will kept his thoughts private. Anthony could still be lying, and he and Freddie could be friends.

“You know it’s true, but you’re too polite to say it. Blink if you agree.”

Will smirked and blinked twice, which made Anthony flash a brilliant smile. Will’s stomach flipped with nervous anticipation.

“So...Will...would you like to correct the record regarding your size? You must have a room here.” It was the lick of his lips at the end of the question that warned Will that they weren't talking about football anymore.

_Oh. Shit. Shit! He’s inviting himself up! NOT GOOD! I’m screwed! Shit!_

“I-I’m not...I don't...I think you’re...fuck,” he stammered. He had never been good at this whole flirting thing, but he had never been this bad! How long had it been? Three years? Yeah, three almost exactly.

“How about we revisit that catfish idea first, and we’ll return to this conversation after we’ve gotten our appetites... ** _up_ ** ,” Anthony said and boldly placed his hand on Will’s knee. “I swear to you, Will, I'm not trying to ruin you. I marked you three years ago when you were ogling my camera man’s ass during that interview. If I had wanted to out you, I’d have done it then.”

“Anthony, I’m not…,” but Will couldn't say it. The lie had gotten too hard to say as he got older. Now, he just avoided conversations where his sexuality might come up like they were the plague.

“Look at you, sweet thing, all twisted up inside,” Anthony said removing his hand and placing it next on Will’s back. He rubbed circles into the aching muscles between Will’s shoulder blades. “Let me help you untwist.”

Loneliness and longing slipped their hooks into him, and Will found himself having thoughts he should not have. But why not? Why should he be the ONLY one having a miserable night while everyone else was having fun? Why was he ALWAYS the one not having any fun?

“Dinner. Just dinner, while I think about the rest.”

“Excellent. Let’s have another drink.”

...

Will and Anthony hadn’t even made it back to Will’s room before he decided Anthony was a menace.

Anthony had his arms around Will’s waist and was pawing at the bulge at his crotch while Will tried and failed to unlock the door for a third time. He was on edge and he had every right to be. The last thing he needed was one of his teammates showing up right now to find Will with the hand of an ESPN reporter down his pants.

“Will...hurry,” Anthony purred in his ear.

A combination of arousal and nerves caused him to jump and withdraw the keycard a moment too soon _yet again._ “How about you try it this time,” Will said peevishly and handed the card to Anthony over his shoulder, forcing him to withdraw.

Anthony got the door open on his first try and sauntered into the room like he owned it.

Will closed the door behind him, but did not immediately follow. Was he really going to do this knowing how dangerous it could be? If this reporter outed him, was he prepared for the media firestorm? But then Will saw Anthony by his bed smiling like the devil himself, and he knew the decision had already been made in his heart.  

 _I just want to be normal for one night,_ he reasoned. _Just ONCE I want to take a handsome stranger to bed on a whim. I deserve this._

“Is this from today?” Anthony asked holding up the game ball.

Will nodded. “Yes. One of the equipment managers gave it to me after the game. It's from the third quarter when we started to make our comeback,” he lied. He didn't want to tell Anthony the whole truth about Hannibal’s gift because he knew it would make a good story, and Hannibal would be displeased if he thought Will was parading his generosity for accolades.

“Seems like an odd accomplishment. You guys barely won.” Anthony said and lobbed the ball to Will like one throws a softball.

Will set the ball down in a chair and removed his khaki jacket to lay over it. The ball belonged to him. Petty as it was; it irked Will that Anthony had helped himself to it without asking if he could touch it. “It was the first win of what will likely be my last season with the team. Besides the coaching staff likes me. I’m kind. I’m polite,” he explained as he wrapped Anthony up in his arms and punctuated each of his good qualities with a slow kiss down the side of his neck. “And I'm gentle,” Will said before biting down hard.

Anthony gasped and clutched Will’s shoulder for support. Will chuckled before working his way back to Anthony's lips.

“Not so gentle,” Anthony moaned into his mouth.

Will raked his teeth lightly over Anthony’s bottom lip and squeezed his ass making promises without words about just how gentle he intended to be tonight.

Anthony straddled his leg and began to rub against it. “You really think they’re going to get rid of you after this year?” he asked.

His words had the same effect as a kick to the nuts. “Dammit, Anthony, you’re sounding like a reporter,” Will said letting his arms fall away from Anthony's body. “I knew this wasn't going to work.”

“No, no, no! It will! Hang on!” Anthony huffed and began removing his clothes. “See! I'm taking off my official reporter shoes, my official reporter belt, my official reporter scarf--”

“Leave the scarf. I like it.” Will smirked. He grabbed both ends of the scarf and pulled Anthony back to him.

“It would look better on you; it matches your eyes,” Anthony said flipping the scarf over his head and looping it around Will’s neck.

“Yeah, but then what would I tie you up with,” Will growled as he removed the scarf and let it drop to the floor.

Anthony raised an eyebrow. “You’re not the same shy boy from three years ago.”

“Shy? No, just a little rusty,” he said while unbuttoning Anthony's shirt.

Anthony dipped two fingers beneath Will’s waistband and slide them towards the zipper of his slacks. “Then let’s get you out of these clothes and oil you up, Tin Man.”

Will brushed Anthony’s hand aside and unzipped his pants exposing his cock. “I believe we have other matters to discuss first. Matters of record.”

Anthony laughed, and lowered himself onto his knees. “Looks like I’ll have to recant my statement.”

Will twisted his fingers through Anthony’s hair, frowning at the slick feeling of it. “You do that, Anthony. Afterwards.”

Anthony’s silver tongue proved to be good at more than just journalism, and Will’s touch starved body did not last long under his “questioning.” But Will promptly tossed Anthony onto the bed and went to work lest Anthony replace his preconceived notions of Will’s size with an inaccurate assessment of his stamina.

During intermission, Will explored every inch of lithe reporting with his mouth relishing the feeling of having another body under him. He had been too afraid to date since entering the NFL, not that he and Anthony were dating now. This was just sex, but even sex seemed like a luxury he could scarcely afford in the wake of what had happened to the NFL’s first openly gay active player, Adrian Michaels. Michaels had come out before the draft, while players like Will remained in the closet, and the media circus had ruined him. A projected third rounder taken at the end of the seventh? Ridiculous. Will wasn't ready for that yet. He wasn't sure he’d ever be ready, but he hoped that he would be one day, after he retired from NFL. After, Will Graham was just a washed-up has-been that he could chose to live and love as he wanted.

He felt Anthony tug at his hair insistently. “I'm impressed. Believe me, Will, I'm impressed, but put something inside me already. ANYTHING! Where did you put that football?”

Will pulled off Anthony's cock and slid up his body until they were nose to nose. “Anthony, we take warmups very seriously in Baltimore,” he smirked and reached for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. “You have to _stretch_ first. Otherwise you might hurt yourself.”

“Fucking football players!” Despite the irritation in Anthony voice he looped his arms around Will’s neck and spread his legs wide.

“It’s the Ravenstag way,” Will said nonchalantly. He shoved a pillow beneath Anthony’s hips and slipped two fingers into his hole. _Christ, this feels so good,_ he admitted and marveled at the sounds he was pulling out of Anthony. Will had not realized just how lonely he was until tonight, and that knowledge made him angry. Fuck the NFL and its toxic culture. Fuck concussions. Fuck rookie contracts. Fuck Jack Crawford. And fuck Hannibal too!

The anger came in waves and quickly abated. The soft and sly Anthony Dimmond seemed singularly adept at drawing Will’s frustration out of him and spinning it into something new and wonderful. But to what lengths was Anthony willing to accept Will with all his hidden rage and eccentricities? To Anthony, Will must look like any other brawny athlete despite his curious pedigree. But how many of Will’s scars did Anthony really see?

“Enough,” Anthony said unwrapping his arms from around Will’s neck. Will withdrew his fingers, and Anthony wiggled underneath him fully. “Will, can I ask a question? Off the record.”

“You can ask, but my mouth might be busy,” Will said lowering his head to get at Anthony’s throat. Anthony rolled his head to the side, ceding every advantage to him.

“Before you became a wide receiver, you played at both cornerback and quarterback. You knew your limitations. You must have. But what did you want to be if they hadn't been an issue?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Will said and pulled back. He let his lips relax into a cruel and familiar smile. The borrowed gesture felt strange, but the impersonation must have been a good one. He felt Anthony tense beneath his body, but his expression was one of want, not fear as Will knew it would be. This was a smile that broke championship caliber defenses, yet pulled rag-tag offenses through to one spectacular win after another. It made reporters forget their questions; celebrities forget their names; and long ago it had given a young man from Louisiana the confidence to throw away years of training and common sense to pursue his dreams although it was ludicrous to believe he could continue to do so.

Will sat up straddling Anthony’s hips and ripped open a condom. Anthony's wiggling became more insistent, but Will ignored him. Only one person set the tempo of the offense in this huddle and it was not this little reporter. Will slicked himself up and pressed himself into Anthony’s waiting hole.

Anthony clenched around Will’s cock and rolled his hips invitingly. “Educate me.”

“What did I want to be?” Will adjusted to get more leverage and thrust hard into Anthony. He gave himself fully to this feeling of control and reveled in the sound of his heartbeat as it pulsed in time with their lovemaking. “I wanted to be Hannibal Lecter.”


	5. Into the Tiger's Den

Weeks two and three had not gone well for the Ravenstags: two losses, only one of them close.

But something was different lately, something was changing: _Will was with someone_. There was nothing romantic between him and Anthony—nothing at all—and that's how Will preferred to keep it. But it was nice having someone to vent to other than Abigail and his old pal, the weight room. The arrangement worked surprisingly well despite their respective careers, and for the most part, Anthony respected Will’s silence on team matters. There were a couple of occasions when Anthony just couldn’t help himself and they had fought, but on a whole, things were good. Really, _really_ good.

It was too risky to meet in Baltimore where Will was reasonably well known despite how unremarkable his football career had been, but they had texted (and sexted) and met on the road after the loss to Carolina.

This time, Will had come to Anthony’s hotel because of the five star Michelin restaurant there that Will “just had to try.” Will ordered a steak while Anthony ordered something Will couldn't pronounce. It was a good steak, but really, it was just a steak, and after the loss Will could scarcely enjoy it. He was happier when Anthony suggested skipping dessert since he was “saving room for other delights.”

The summons came two days later after their first practice. Will was drying his hair with a towel when Joel tapped him on the shoulder.

“Will," Joel said and fidgeted with his baseball cap pulling it down over his eyes. “Hannibal wants to see you in the quarterback's room.”

“What’s wrong? You seem nervous.”

Joel bit his lip. “I am. He’s in a mood.”

Will sighed. “ _I am so surprised._ But seriously, when is he not!? Everyone around here caters to his fragile ego like the world revolves around it!”

Joel didn't make any jokes today about past Super Bowl glories. He stuck his hands in his pockets and slumped forward. “I think you better go. It’s best not to keep him waiting when he’s like this.”

“Okay, Joel, okay. I'll get moving.” Will replied feeling suddenly nervous. He changed quickly into a pair of basketball shorts and a white shirt and ran through his memories of today's practice to figure out what he had done wrong. He had run his routes perfectly and only had one drop at the beginning. It didn't make sense. Lately, it seemed like Hannibal was finally starting to trust him. Jimmy and Brian were still his preferred targets, but Will had gotten a few good looks last game.

Will arrived at his destination and realized he didn't know what the protocol was here. He’d never had a one-on-one with Hannibal before. The door was shut, but what did that mean? None of the coaches closed their doors unless they were in a strategy meeting and when that happened, you waited. You did not knock. Ever! That’s how the game was played, but Hannibal wasn't a coach. He was a field general, yes, and terrifying, but just another player like the rest of them and older too. He didn’t have much time left in the League. Maybe not much more than Will did, which made them equal. Even Stevens.

Will raised his hand ready to knock, but--

“Stop hovering and come in,” Hannibal’s voice growled from within.

Will drew a deep breath and called up his own reserve of irritation before he entered.

Hannibal was on his feet leaning against his desk with his arms crossed in front of his chest. No indication was given that Will should find a place to sit, and every chair was already filled with equipment. So Will stood and fought to keep his hands relaxed at his sides.

“Close the door, and come here,” Hannibal ordered pointing at the floor in front of him.

Will shut the door and did as he was bade although it rankled his last nerve. But his instincts were urging caution until he could determine what kind of snake had his foot in its mouth. “What's up?”

Hannibal’s face didn't change outwardly that Will could see, but Will knew that he had somehow enraged Hannibal further with his question. It was the way the air changed around him that gave him away along with the slight flush of anger circling his long and graceful neck like a collar. “I know what you did in Carolina. I know you slept with that reporter, Dimmond,” he said simply.

Will’s stomach turned to stone and sank to the floor. He knew. _Oh God, he knew!_ “How?”

“Because Del Friscos is a very fine restaurant, a personal favorite of mine. A pity you skipped dessert. They have an excellent creme brûlée,” Hannibal said, his voice calm, but Will could feel power gathering behind him. So it was no surprise when his stone-face erupted like Mount Saint Helena. “How could you be such an imbecile!?! You’ve put this entire football program at a risk!”

Will’s face was beet red at having to defend personal relations to millionaire playboy Hannibal Lecter of all people. When did he not have some girl hanging off his arm? It was literally every Society Six photo! “Hey, wait a minute!”

“NO!” Hannibal roared taking a step towards him. “You listen to ME. When you are a hairpin away from disaster, you don’t sleep with the grenade, Graham!”

There was nothing calm about Hannibal’s demeanor now. He was a snarling, spitting bundle of rage—a mad dog—and it ignited the wick of Will’s own battery of anger.

What gave Hannibal the RIGHT to pry into his personal affairs!? It was just a damn sport after all! They weren't saving lives here and no one had died as a result of his affair with Anthony! If this was going to be a problem, then it was a problem for the coaching staff. NOT THIS ASSHOLE! Hannibal had no reason to be this angry,  _no_ **_good_ ** _reason anyway,_ unless…

“Is this a gay thing!?” Will asked angrily.

Hannibal lunged at him moving with the speed of a viper. Will had no time to register what was happening before he was thrust against a white board. It was questionable who groaned louder—Will or the equipment.

Hannibal’s lips were all over his, prying his mouth open with hot and hungry kisses that Will couldn't help but answer point for point. One hand clutched Will’s ass; the other knotted itself in his hair making it so that Will could not pull away even if he wanted to, and Will definitely did NOT want to. In that moment, he simply forgot how much he had grown to hate Hannibal over the last three years. He was seventeen again dreaming of fame and sex in the shower with Hannibal. This was every boyhood fantasy. It felt good and right. No...it felt **_perfect._ **

Will trembled and leaned into the kiss, but Hannibal broke off his advance the instant Will pushed back.

“As you can see, this is not _‘a gay thing.’_  I am far more concerned with what you may have told your new friend about the team while your nose was up his ass!” Hannibal said and swept his bangs away from his face. “Sleep with whomever you like. Sleep with Jack Crawford for all I care, but don't ever let me hear that you’ve slept with a reporter again. I may not have the authority to cut you from this team, but I can make you miserable here.”

And with that, Hannibal left slamming the door to his office behind him.

Will didn't realize he was crying until a sob tore through his chest. He plopped down onto the floor and drew his knees up to his chest, hating that he was still hard after Hannibal had laid into him.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It was **NEVER** supposed to be like this.

It would have been better if he had been cut at the end of rookie camp.

No, in that moment, Will wished he’d never picked up a football at all.

He could have been a teacher. He could have been a cop. There were an infinite number of futures he could have chosen for himself, and none of them included Hannibal Lecter.

But no, he was this, and with one stupid move, he’d thrown it all away.


	6. Kansas City

Prime Time games were special. They were supposed to tell a story, and tonight the story was: _fuck the Ravenstags._

Their problems started well before kickoff when Coach Du Maurier decided to completely reshuffle the guards on the offensive line for the fourth time this season.

Bedelia Du Maurier did not simply observe. If she saw something she didn't like, she would not hesitate to scrap the entire game plan at a moment's notice. As a team, the players were expected to accept her orders with enthusiasm and efficiency, but it was hard on the rookies and on the offensive line in particular who were not used to this level of organized chaos. There were few veterans and thus no leadership. Only one player on the offensive line had played through his rookie contract at all. It was a disaster in the making, and the person who suffered most was Hannibal. Long term, Will was sure the idea had been to bring in youth to protect their aging quarterback, but in the short term it was a mess.

To be effective, a quarterback needed a stable offensive line who created a pocket of protected space from which to throw from. Being a good offensive linemen meant having quick feet and great hands in order to engage and fend off the opposing linebacker before he could lay his hands on your quarterback. Linemen needed to have stamina since many of them would play every down, and a preternatural awareness of where the quarterback was on the field so as not to trip over him if he needed to scramble outside of the pocket of protection. But the rookie linemen, while athletic, had not yet mastered these fundamentals of the position since many of them, like Will, were new to their assignments. Coach Du Maurier prioritized raw talent over experience since experience came with practice. Sometimes it worked. That wasn't the case this year. The offense line was about as rock solid as a bowl of mashed potatoes.

The second problem tonight was the noise level. Braves Stadium was always loud. It was intentionally designed to be loud, but the crowd noise tonight was record breaking...literally. The Braves had invited a representative from the Guinness Book of World Records to observe and measure the crowd noise hoping to break the previous record, and they had done it twice tonight already. For the Ravenstags, that created a heap of trouble. Crowds were always loudest when the opponent had the ball, which made communication difficult and effectively neutralized the Ravenstags' greatest weapon: the no huddle offense. With a cerebral and experienced quarterback like Hannibal Lecter on the field, there was not always a need to confer with the sideline coaches or huddle up to dispense orders. Hannibal had the ability to read a defense from the line of scrimmage and the conviction of his beliefs to make adjustments on the spot. Ordinarily, that uptempo offense wore out defenses quickly and created huge opportunities downfield for the receivers, but not a tonight. Tonight the Ravenstags had barely made it to midfield on each drive and sniffed the end zone only once. The score was 31-3, Braves leading at the close of the third quarter. It was truly a brutal game, the kind of game that could haunt a team an entire season if they didn't take a stand and show some mettle. Will didn't think the rookies were ready for the oncoming shitstorm if the Ravenstags let themselves be held to a single field goal. The team had a reputation for winning in Baltimore with five trips to the Big Game and three championships in the last decade, and there was only one thing the American sports fan loved more than an underdog—a champion’s fall from grace.

Hannibal in particular had NEVER had a worse night. He had not even thrown for a hundred yards by the third quarter, and in addition to completing only forty percent of his passes, he had fumbled the ball TWICE already and now sat angry and alone on the sideline during a commercial break.

No one dared get too close lest they get caught in the bite of the bear trap, not even Coach Du Maurier. But Will, who had never been very good at avoiding risk, decided he’d had enough. The visual was just terrible, he reasoned, as the on field camera hovered over Hannibal in his isolation, provoking elated cheers from the opposing fanbase. He looked tired and he looked hurt, and this had been a problem all evening. Wherever the Ripper was, it wasn't here in Kansas City with the team, and if he didn't show up soon, the Ravenstags were sunk. Even though Will was terrified, confounded, and still pissed as hell at him since their kiss, he marched over to the bench at sat himself down beside his quarterback.

Hannibal didn't acknowledge his presence at first. He just kept staring off into the bright lights and the sea of orange t-shirts worn by the attending Braves fans.

“Tasteless,” Hannibal muttered and glared at the scores of fans as they waved their arms back and forth mimicking the motion of a tomahawk.

“Tell me about it,” Will said adding his own disapproving glower to the mix.

“You have a problem with taste?”

Will blinked and traded his disdain for surprise. He hadn't expected a response. “Often. My thoughts aren’t always tasty, but this goes beyond that. This...pageantry,” he said waving his hand over the crowd behind them, “it’s disrespectful. The League ought to do something about it, greedy bastards, but they’re too concerned with their trademarks and pocket books to do the right thing.”

Hannibal looked at him so relaxed in posture and intensity that Will had to check the scoreboard just to make sure they were still losing.

“We are of like mind then. How funny,” Hannibal said.

“That’s what you find funny?” Will joked and elbowed Hannibal in the arm. “You need to get out more.”

Hannibal ignore the insult and kept on talking. “Graham…I’d like you to know that rudeness is the ugliest thing in the world to me.” The pause was made all the more dramatic by the thoughtful look Hannibal leveled at him. “Even in myself, I find it unforgivable,” he said and avoided direct eye contact by glancing down at Will’s lips.

Will tensed. The air between them seemed to thicken. It was probably just the heat rolling off the field, but Will compared it to the feeling that arrived just ahead of a storm. It no longer felt like they were only speaking of the cultural appropriation of the home team. Was this supposed to be an apology? Who could say? During Will’s three years as a Ravenstag, he had NEVER heard Hannibal apologize, not even once.

They had not spoken about the kiss since it happened. Honestly, they hadn't spoken at all since then. Sure Hannibal had yelled at him a couple times during practice but they were one-sided disputes. Will had been noticeably and understandably distracted at practice all week. Hannibal occupied his thoughts at all times and followed him into his dreams.

 _Why? Because he kissed you? Get over yourself. You don't even know what his deal is_ , Will scolded himself.

Was Hannibal gay? Bi? Pan? It stood to reason that regardless of the specifics of Hannibal’s sexuality, he had witnessed the ugliness of past locker rooms during his decades of athletic competition to say nothing of the media. Hannibal knew better than any active player how toxic and unwelcoming the sport could be, and with another ten years beneath his belt, he had lived with it a lot longer than Will had.

Will had been alone all his life with no queer friends in his hometown and only a handful of one-night stands in high school and college. He had borne it all quietly because it was easy to be alone when you didn't have any other options. Now, almost thirty, Will was getting tired of being alone and silent, and he wanted someone to talk to, someone who understood him. Along had come Anthony and that had helped, but Anthony wasn't a player. There were some things he wouldn't understand and couldn't satisfy. But Hannibal…

However, there was a problem, a big one: he still kinda hated Hannibal and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Plus, maybe Hannibal was straight and just fucking with him.

But then Will thought about the kiss. No, straight men did not kiss like that.

“Ladies, are you done gabbing? We have a game to play. Coach wants to talk to you, Hannibal.”

With those words the curtain fell on Hannibal’s tranquility, and when it rose again his anger had returned at peak strength. His target was the running backs coach, Erik. He was a rookie coach in Baltimore with prior experience only at the college level, and it showed. Erik had never moved out of the frat house in his mind and manners. Will didn't think he'd last long on the team.

“That was very rude, Erik. Does Coach Du Maurier _‘gab?’_ Does Coach Katz? Need I remind you how we show respect toward each other in this organization?” Hannibal stood up and cast an imposing shadow over the young coach while being dynamically lit from behind by the stadium lights. Hands on his hips. His voice dripping with razors. The Ripper had finally woken, so Will supposed the team should thank Erik for that parting gift. The running backs coach was officially street meat if the Ripper was gunning for him. Coach Du Maurier had total authority over player decisions, but Hannibal, who had as much experience as half of their coaching staff, had been successful in driving other coaches out of their positions in the past. Will did not intercede this time, not like he had for Ben on Special Teams. Erik was the kind of guy for whom everything bad was “gay” and anyone who complained about the daily grind was a “ballerina” or a “little bitch.” He was a pig and deserved to be someone’s bacon.

Erik swallowed nervously and mumbled an apology before taking flight. Hannibal turned, glared at Will, clearly expecting some reproach, but Will startled him with a sly wink. Hannibal left to check-in with Coach Du Maurier before their next offensive drive glancing over his shoulder at Will as he departed.

…

It was third down again, third and long with fifteen yards between the Ravenstags and a fresh set of attempts to reach the end zone. A fumble on the last play had cost them their progress and then some, but thankfully they had recovered the ball before the Braves laid their hands on it. The snap count started and Will crouched a little lower to the ground, gathering his energy to take off like a rocket.

“Hut! Hut!” Hannibal’s voice boomed.

Will sprinted forward and squeezed through a hole between two middle linebackers. In the backfield, he saw Zeller wrapped up with a cornerback. There would be no opportunity for Hannibal there so Will darted ahead of the linebackers, twisted his torso, and caught the ball he’d known would be thrown in his direction.

The linebackers had reoriented themselves by now and we're barreling towards him with 600 pounds of muscle between them. There was no way of avoiding this tackle since Will had had to reduce his speed to catch the ball, but he was desperate to get the first down at least. A pair of hands grabbed him by the jersey and began to drag him to the ground just shy of the marker. Will fought to stay on his feet. Even two extra steps could sometimes be the difference, but down he went into the bottom of a dogpile.

Will wrapped himself around the ball until his teammates arrived to pull the Braves players off him. Before he had even gotten to his feet the chains were already on the field to measure the distance between the ball and the ten yard marker. Sure enough, Will was six inches shy.

He was fuming at himself as he started to walk off the field ready to let the punting unit take over. If only he fought a little harder on that play! The game would still be lost, but maybe they could have put some points on the board. Suddenly Will realized all was not well. There was confusion on the sidelines because Hannibal was still barking orders to the offense intending to play through the fourth down against Coach Du Maurier’s designs. Christ! He was going to disobey a direct order! Was he insane? Answer: probably. Changing a play call at the line of scrimmage was fine since only the players knew when it occurred, but this was a public display of insubordination. _Oh, she was not going to be happy about this._

The confusion on the field forced the Ravenstags to burn a timeout. The media was going to love this. He could see the _Tattle Ball_ headline now: “MUTINY ON THE FIELD - Ripper tears up script!”

The offense regrouped on the line of scrimmage. There was no need to return to the huddle. Everyone knew what play was coming. It was Hannibal’s favorite: the Quarterback Sneak. It was a simple play and elegant because of that simplicity. Instead of stepping back for the pass, to execute a sneak, the quarterback steps forward and launches himself into the space between the offensive and defensive lines to gain the necessary inches for either a first down. It wasn't the prettiest play and it carried a lot of risk to the QB, but damn if it didn't come with it's fair share of glory too. And Hannibal was the undisputed King of the Quarterback Sneak. Fifty-three successful attempts during fourteen years of professional football. No one did it better.

To the surprise of no one, Hannibal executed the play perfectly, but if Coach Du Maurier was pleased with her field general’s initiative, it didn't show on her face.

A second timeout was called. Will saw Hannibal trot off to confer with Coach Du Maurier. Will knelt to fix his cleat, but when he rejoined the team in the huddle it was Matthew Brown, the backup, not Hannibal, calling plays.

“Graham, do you understand what I need you to do!?!” Matthew shouted

“Huh!? What!? I can't hear over this noise!” Will screamed back and tapped the side of his helmet. It was a lie of course. The stadium had emptied out at the start of the fourth quarter. It was loud but no longer defeating since no one believed they could come back from 38-3, and now matters were worse. It was the shock of seeing Matthew under center that created the distraction. Matthew Brown, the second round draft pick out of the most prestigious system in college football. Matthew, the heir apparent.

Will’s _temporary_ quarterback (and he had to believe that this situation was only temporary) signed the play call with his hands. After Will nodded that he understood, the team broke apart and took their positions, but Will’s mind was still whirling. Had Hannibal been hit on that last sack? Was he hurt? He would never have let himself be pulled out of a game otherwise.

Will didn't allow himself to look at the sideline until the drive was done. He expected the team would fail to convert on third doing, going three and out for the twelfth time tonight, except they didn't! After the first two passing plays failed, Matthew ran the ball for ten yards and secured the first down. It was the momentum the team needed. It was actions of a leader.

Hannibal sat on the bench with his hands in his lap looking blankly at the sky.

On the second down of the next set, Matthew threw a forty-eight yard bomb downfield and connected with Brian for the touchdown.

Normally after a touchdown, the play is replayed on the giant screens so the fans can cheer or jeer accordingly, but not tonight. Tonight every stadium screen showed the same clip, which was even now being retweeted by every media outlet. It was an image that would haunt Ravenstag fans all week: Hannibal Lecter walking off the field, his helmet hanging limply from his fingers with head bent low in defeat.


	7. The King Is Dead

The next day, the wounded Ravenstags boarded the team jet at dawn. They dressed in their best suits on orders from Coach Du Maurier and presented a united front as they pushed through the press who were already crowding the tarmac. It was a clever piece of theater. _We’re back to business,_ the message read, but it was a somber and worried lot that settled into their seats. The post-game news cycle had not been kind. Hot takes like “the Ravenstags were a complete mess last night. A total meltdown,” or “this is not the team you love to hate,” ran rampant through the media and every armchair coach was out with knives.

But it was worse for Hannibal.

“Ding, Dong, the King Is Dead” the _Tattle Ball_ article read and the rest of the news outlets picked up the battle cry. “Let’s face it, time is the great destroyer of all things, even the mighty Hannibal Lecter. His rivals across the league can sleep a little easier knowing that the Wicked Witch of the east coast was crushed last night by a little team out of Kansas City.”

And it didn't end there. On the _Baltimore Sun_ , “for Hannibal Lecter the end game has become apparent.” On _Sports Illustrated_ , “face it, he’s just not good anymore.” Even Anthony at ESPN had joined the dogpile. “The question remains: what will the Ravenstags do at the quarterback position? They can't possibly hope to represent the AFC in the Super Bowl with another performance like that. If backup quarterback, Matthew Brown, is the answer, he’ll need to learn how to lead a high caliber offense like the Baltimore Ravenstags, and that will take time. Unless this team cuts ties with their former star, I fear their Championship dreams are sunk.”

Will had to close out his browser after that one. Anthony was just doing his job, but it was hard not to feel betrayed by the article. Any idiot, could see that Matthew Brown, was **not** the answer. He was too young and his play calling was erratic. _Or maybe you just want that to be the case,_ a little voice whispered inside his head. _Grow up. Who was Hannibal before Roman Fell tore his ACL? A nothing. A nobody. Just some sixth round draft pick who was never expected to play a single snap if everything went according to plan. Maybe this is Matthew’s golden opportunity, and maybe it’s yours too. Think about it. What has Hannibal Lecter ever done for you?_

Will had thought about it, and the answer was irreducibly complex. Hannibal had given Will so much and so little. He was the reason Will had wanted to be a football player. He owed Hannibal his career, and yet...

Hannibal had given him the dream and then shown him the harsh and unforgiving reality of it by turning out to be a complete phony. He was mean; he was efficient. He was volatile, and he was ambitious. Hannibal was light and darkness, but he was still Will’s quarterback, his leader.

_Listen to your instincts_ , Will’s mother had told him on draft night, but what if his instincts were wrong? What if something had broken inside him since her death like they had broken inside Hannibal and made him mean-spirited? It was all so slippery, a damn slippery life.

“Enough of that maple syrup,” Will mumbled repeating his mother’s favorite words like an ‘amen.’ Then he packed away his thoughts and shelved them beside the rest of his worries. No sense borrowing trouble, especially not now. They were still an hour outside Baltimore and stuck in this metal can at forty thousand feet n the air. Up ahead, in first class where Hannibal and the coaches rode, Will heard shouting. Feeling uncomfortable, he slid his headphones over his ears, closed his eyes, and turned on his audiobook.

The headphones were expensive. Will had gotten them from a gift bag along with a stack of iTunes gift cards at the party Alana Bloom, the team’s owner, had thrown at her home last year. They were the fanciest thing he owned and so good at blocking outside noise, that Will didn't hear Hannibal’s approach until he had already slid into the empty seat beside him.

Will opened his eyes and opened them wider still when he realized who his new traveling companion was. He quickly clicked off the novel he’d been listening to and hung his headphones around his neck. “Do you need anything?”

Hannibal had his tablet out and the front page of ESPN up on the screen. Will hoped he hadn't seen Anthony's article yet, but knowing Hannibal, he had probably read it three times already.

“I sat here because I was told you are quiet. Go back to your music, Graham, trash though it may be,” he snapped and angrily scrolled through the comments section of the article.

“It’s an audiobook,” Will corrected, wondering why he was even speaking. Was it pity? Or the desperate need to share that part of himself, which he kept locked away far from his public life, with someone who _might_ understand.

“Go back to whatever dime store Dan Brown novel you are listening to then.”

“You shouldn't make fun of Dan Brown The books might be cotton candy puff pieces, but people enjoy them. Isn't it better that people are reading instead of more mindless alternatives?” Will’s heart was thundering as he spoke.

_Danger. Danger, Will “Robinson” Graham._ This wasn't just desperate...this was positively suicidal! Why was he picking a fight with Hannibal Lecter of all people...about books!?! The man had three degrees or some nonsense. Will didn't stand a chance.

There was an audible crack as Hannibal flipped the cover over on his tablet and folded his hands over of it. “Then tell me, Graham, what are you reading?”

Will gulped. “Raymond Chandler's _The Big Sleep._ ”

Hannibal wore his best poker face, but Will caught his eyes drifting to Will’s phone curiously. “The sassy stylings of Detective Philip Marlowe, a more interesting choice than I would have credited you with. Why do you enjoy them?”

_Rudeness is the ugliest thing in the world to me, Graham,_ Will thought to himself mimicking Hannibal’s low and uptight accent. _Bullshit!_

“What's with you? I'm trying to be nice.”

“I didn't ask you to be nice. I asked you to be _quiet_ ; however, since you are as incapable of listening to me off the field as you are on it, I am asking you to tell me about Raymond Chandler.”

Will stopped himself from offering a growl as a response. Seriously, why did Hannibal always have to be SUCH a dick about _everything_!? Sympathy was wasted on him.

Hannibal’s large hand reached up and hit the “Call for Assistance” button. When a steward came by, he ordered three screwdrivers to be brought to him with “some haste.”

“Isn't it a bit early to be getting hammered? I thought you had an image to protect, Mr. Granola Bar,” Will said pointedly.

Hannibal rolled his eyes. “There is not enough alcohol in these drinks to clean a wound. Coach Du Maurier makes the staff water the drinks down for players. Besides one of them is for you. Now, Raymond Chandler or do I need to repeat myself _again_?

Will didn't mention that he hated vodka and preferred whiskey because he was probably going to need that drink to get through this flight. “Raymond Chandler is one of life’s great pleasures to be enjoyed ideally in a bath with a drink in hand.”

“As you can see, the drink has been arranged. Tell me, Graham, what else do you enjoy listening to?”

“I'm a bit all over the map in my preferences. I'll read everything from D.H. Lawrence to Ursula K. Le Guinn.”

Hannibal nodded and actually smiled. “The Left Hand of Darkness?”

“Hell yes! Wait…” Will’s eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead. “You read sci-fi?”

“When it is noteworthy. Octavia Butler, Ann Leckie, Nnedi Okorafor, a handful of others. But I read a lot of nonfiction as well because my... _preferences_ are also ‘all over the map,’ Graham,” he said through half lidded eyes that made Will think of dark rooms and silk sheets.

_What was that? Is he...is Hannibal FLIRTING with me!?_  Will wondered and squashed the thought. No, Hannibal had made it very clear where he stood in the quarterback's room.

“That’s a lot of award winners. Read anything that’s not so trendy?” Will challenged. A part of him began to enjoy himself in Hannibal’s company talking about books instead of Will’s failures on the field, but it still felt like a trap. Hannibal was NOT this nice. What was his angle?

Hannibal huffed. “I don’t choose books because of their popularity. I read whatever strikes me as thoughtful or interesting.”

“And how do define that?”

Hannibal placed his arm on the armrest that lay between them and leaned towards Will. “There is a different standard for everything. For people too. I’m trying to define you actually—blame the psychology degree for this academic ambush—yet I find your face oddly closed to me. How very... _interesting_.”

Will shifted in his seat. It was an appraising look Hannibal gave him and sharp too, but not hateful, and it made Will feel entirely too warm for comfort. “If I can see you, you can see me.”

“Really? You think?”

Will remained silent, sensing a trap.

“How do you see me, Will?”

He thought about ignoring the question. That would be the smart thing to do, but maybe he’d been knocked on the head too often because that’s not what he did. “A wolf in a show dog’s clothing--a poodle...to be precise.”

The screwdrivers arrived then, which was great. If Will started blushing, he could always blame it on the drinks.

Meanwhile, Hannibal roared with laughter as he took the drinks from their stewardess, oblivious to how uncomfortable his sudden and effervescent good humor made her.  

“Your name, Will, it is short for William?”

“Yes, after my grandfather, but I prefer Will.”

“How informal. It suits you,” Hannibal said taking a long sip from his glass.

Will bristled.

“Relax, I meant no offense. Will is a fine name. How did you get to the airport? Did you drive yourself?” He was looking at his glass rather than looking at Will. His eyes were glassy and distant; it was a look Will knew well. Hannibal was elsewhere right now, here and not here. He did that on the field too sometimes when the game slowed down enough to allow him to peer into the possible futures ahead of them.

“No, Brian usually drives me over. We live near each other.”

“Ah, young Zeller. You are...close?”

It took Will a moment to realize what Hannibal was _really_ asking. “Close enough, and it's none of your business anyway,” he said in a low growl. Besides, what did it matter? Hannibal had only forbidden Will from fucking reporters.

Hannibal looked up, and his eyes bore two holes into the back of Will’s skull. “Until the day I am relieved of position, everything that happens on this team is _my_ business.”

“Oh yeah? From the sound of it, that day might not be that far off.”

The rational part of his mind looked on in horror as Will beat his chest with words like some goddamn Neanderthal. What was he saying!? He was often glib with his teammates, but this was a lot, even for him! It was that anger again. Dammit! Why was Hannibal SO good at bringing it out of him!?

Will expected Hannibal to return fire, but instead he merely sipped at his cocktail in silence. The only indication that he was angry at all was the way he had pivoted slightly away from Will. Will recognized it as a defensive, wounded move and felt guilty. _I’m the last person he needs to hear that from right now_ , he reminded himself.

“I will drive you home tonight,” Hannibal said as he finish his first drink and started on the second.

“That’s not necessary...I mean thank you, but it's not necessary.”

“It is. Trust me, William.”

“Will,” he corrected

Hannibal smirked leaving Will with the impression that the error had been intentional. “Go back to your audiobook _._ I have things to consider.”

…

Hannibal was on the phone with his assistant as soon as it was okay to use cellphones again and making reservations for two at a posh restaurant downtown. Will didn't need to ask who they were for, he knew. But what could he do? Hannibal had that fourth quarter look in his eyes. He wasn't going to take "no" for an answer.

To emphasize the point, it was Hannibal who removed Will’s bag from the overhead as he walked off the plane without comment. Will trailed after him, somehow managing to have HANNIBAL’S bag foisted onto him by a distressed flight attendant.

On the tarmac, Will lost track of Hannibal among the press. It was a little disturbing actually. How did that even happen? He was a fucking Clydesdale in Armani, not some sort of devil cloaked in smoke and shadow. But the press was crowding around Coach Du Maurier instead and must have just missed him when he did not get off with the rest of first class.

_I guess I should go find Brian._ Will could always return the bag to Hannibal later.

Searching for his ride brought him within earshot of Coach Du Maurier’s impromptu press conference, which was going as well as one might expect. When asked for her thoughts on the game, the team had “already moved on to next week’s game in Minnesota.” When asked about Hannibal’s play specifically, “we’re just thinking about Minnesota.” When asked whether there would be an evaluation at the quarterback position, she merely scoffed and refused to answer the question until she was pressed again, this time by Anthony.

“I respect that you’re just trying to do your job, Coach Du Maurier, but what about us? It’s OUR job to find out what happened!”

A hush swallowed the press pool whole.

“Dead man walking,” _The Washington Post_ commentator whispered to his neighbor.

“Is that so?” Coach Du Maurier asked with ice in her eyes. “Look, I don't know how else to answer your questions. We’re on to Minnesota. That is the only game I care about right now. If that's not good enough for you then I suggest you find another kind of employment.”

With Anthony distracted by Coach Du Maurier, Will fled lest he be spotted. He didn't think he could deal with that mess right now or Anthony's questions. He was almost home free when a black Bentley pulled up in front of him cutting off his exit. The passenger door popped open. “Going my way?” Hannibal smirked from the driver's seat.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No, not really. I took the liberty of sending Zeller on without you. I'm your only way out of here, William.”

“Lovely. There’s no chance we can skip whatever you have planned for us is there? I'm pretty beat.”

“None at all. Now get in. Our reservation is in an hour.”

With a heavy sigh and an exaggerated throwing motion, Will chucked Hannibal’s bag into the back seat and sat down. The strangled noise Hannibal made over the abuse of his property was at least some reward for what Will would likely have to endure over the next few hours. “So where are we going?”

“Never ask. It spoils the surprise.”


	8. Use of Weapons

Hannibal made Will listen to Goldberg Variations the ENTIRE way, and Will regretted not palming the air sickness bag back on the plane.

They rode in silence except for the music. If Will asked a question, Hannibal merely ignored him. He supposed it was better this way. If they weren’t talking there was less of a chance they’d kill each other over lunch. But goddamn...this music.

At the point where Will was considering pitching himself from the vehicle at the next stoplight, his overnight bag be damned, Hannibal pulled up to an elegant building with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the carport.

A valet took the keys, and Hannibal ushered Will inside. There, they were promptly seated at a table at the center of the restaurant although there were much more private tables available. Will assumed this was by design so Hannibal could be at the center of attention even when doing something as pedestrian as having lunch with a co-worker.

“Why are we here?” Will asked when they were settled.

“It was now or never. I did not think you would go anywhere willingly that would require you to wear a tie if you were not already wearing one as a result of Coach Du Maurier's instructions.”

“I'm not a hick, you know.”

“I did not mean to imply you were, but you are not pretentious either. Presentation matters less than practically and comfort to you.”

Will had no argument for that.

“I see things too, William. We are not so dissimilar in that regard although my aesthetics may differ from yours.”

Will laughed drawing a scowl from the next table and a palpable twitch out of Hannibal. “Hannibal Lecter, eighth of his line, three time Super Bowl champion, two time MVP, pretentious? Never.” Pretentious was too mild a world. “You are the very image of practicality, Mr. Dolce & Gabbana.”

“The practically I speak of is not with regards to my wardrobe, William. I am talking about on the field, where it matters; where I thought you wanted to be.” Hannibal hissed leaning over his empty plate to strike Will with the full force of his anger without being exposed in public as the brute he truly was. “I am in need of a new weapon. Someone who I can trust. Someone who understands me like Randall did.” Hannibal leaned back in his chair and called a waiter over to him. Mr. Practicality ordered a single glass of white wine, something French and fancy, which Will had never heard of.

“And for the Monsieur?”

“What do you have that's domestic?”

The waiter made a face. “The selection is rather sparse I am afraid, but if you would prefer an import I can recommend--”

“No. Domestic.” Will was counting on the options being terrible.

Hannibal did his best to seem unconcerned, but Will was no novice to his micro-tantrums. Just beneath the surface, the beast was pulling at his chain.

“As you wish,” the waiter said with a weary sigh. “In terms of domestic beers we have Coors—”

“That.” Will said with a pleasant smile. “That will do **nicely**.”

Hannibal’s jaw locked into place, but internally, Will knew Hannibal has some very choice words for his new “weapon.”

“I am considering revising my opinion of you not being a hick,” he said when they were alone again.

Will fished the lemon out of his water and flicked it onto Hannibal’s salad plate. Here it was, his moment of truth. If Hannibal was sincere in his offer and Will was talented enough to impress him, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. But Will knew Hannibal, and he knew how he was with his weapons. If he didn't put up a tough front in the beginning, Hannibal would walk all over him. So yes, Will was willing to become Hannibal’s knife, but this was HIS becoming, HIS chance. Hannibal's time in the spotlight was nearly done. “I’m not a hick, and I won’t be bullied. But you won’t find anyone, ANYONE, more dedicated to this team. You may have been  pick #199, but I was pick #232. Don't make the mistake of thinking I'm not hungry for it, Hannibal. I'm hungry.”

Hannibal studied Will in silence until the drinks arrived, but Will noticed he was not clenching his teeth quite so tightly anymore.

“Tell me, William—”

“It really is just Will,” he cut in as the drinks arrived.

“No, William will do for now,” Hannibal said and eyed Will’s beer with disgust. So it was going to be like this? “William” until Will no longer offended him. Wow, there really was no end to his pettiness.

When Hannibal was finished making his displeasure known, he shook his head and set aside his attitude. Then he leaned back in his chair in a way that looked casual yet displayed all the hard angles of his face, neck, and rough hands to their full advantage. Will recognize the pose from some of the magazines he’d collected during high school. _I’m all yours if you want it,_ Hannibal’s posture said. This wasn't Hannibal Lecter, World Champion. This was a seduction and an offering. 

Despite the body language, Will was not naive enough to think that what Hannibal was offering was sex. No, it was better. On offer was Hannibal’s mind, his arm, and his ambition. On offer was opportunity. It was a simple fact: Hannibal Lecter made any receiver look better. All of his previous favorites had gone on to lucrative contracts elsewhere in the NFL.

“We’ve spoken of my needs already. Tell me, William, what is it that you want from me?”

Will cocked his head to the side and smirked. “I want what any girl wants. I want you to give me a diamond ring,” he said shooting Hannibal the bird with the middle finger of his left hand instead of the ring finger.

Hannibal chuckled and thumbed the stem of his wine glass suggestively. “Is that all? How incredibly forward of you.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Let's see if we make it through dessert first.”


	9. Long Live the King

After a light meal where Hannibal ordered for both of them before Will knew what had happened, they got back into the Bentley and drove towards the city limits. There was no music this time, only a deep and suspicious silence. Over lunch, Hannibal quizzed Will on the playbook, sought his opinion on the slow start of the season, and rebuffed Will’s attempts to take control of the conversation with questions of his own.

But he had made no indication whether Will had passed his test or not, and the silence was worrying.

“Where are we going?” Will asked when they had passed the exit that would have taken him home.

“It is as I told you, I need to see if you can survive your just desserts.”

“We didn't have dessert. You wouldn't let me, remember?”

“I thought something _a little more...bittersweet_ would be appropriate to commemorate the occasion, my dear.”

Will frowned. Nope, nope. All aboard the Nope Train to Nopeville.  “I like that less than "William." There was no way IN HELL he’d allow “my dear” to become a thing.

“As you wish, _William_.”

Will still didn’t know where they were going, and Hannibal refused to say anything on the matter except for confounding vagaries and dessert puns. “This could be considered kidnapping, you know.”

“If that is the view you’re going to take of it, perhaps I have misjudged your appetite for success...or you have. Do you want me to turn around?”

Will sighed. So that's how Captain Good humor wanted to be? Fine. “I know what I want. Now, drive.”

Hannibal pushed his foot down on the gas as if Will’s words had been a challenge. The Bentley shot forward like a bullet, and swerved neatly in and out of traffic at a reckless pace.

“Who is the cornerback behind Peterson on the Shrikes' defense?” Hannibal asked.

“Billings.”

“What school is he from?

“Alabama. What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m driving. Now talk to me about their offense. Is Norton the real deal or not?”

Will thought about the sophomore tight end. He had the same physical advantages of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, but Will had concerns about his technique. He had no doubt that the Shrikes craved what the Ravenstags had once had in their former tight end, whose job was half-defense/half-offense, but he didn’t think Billings was the answer. “He’s a good blocker and has got the height to be a menace in the end zone but he has stone hands. His quarterback’s aim has to be perfect. He can't make clutch plays. Why are you testing me like this?”

Hannibal tightened his grip on the steering wheel, but Will did not sense anger in the shift in body language. Will could practically see the questions buzzing around his head like bees, but why the hesitation?

“I need to understand you, William, to see you. We have played at odds for so long, I cannot trust my preconceived notions out you. I know I should apologize for this intellectual ambush, I shall likely have to do so again so I must use my apologies sparingly.”

“Just keep it professional,” Will insisted and could not avoid thinking of the kiss Hannibal taken.

“Of course. Now give me your thoughts on the NFC South.”

“The entire division?”

“Yes, one of those four teams will be headed to the Super Bowl.”

“I think you’re overlooking the Blue Jays.”

“The NFC East, really? Do tell?”

Will broke down the past three seasons of the team, pointing out how they’ve grown steadily stronger on defense while the rest of their conference focused on offense, which was a great way to win in style but it took a strong defense to win championships.

Hannibal listened patiently and if he had any criticisms, he withheld them. He had questions though and asked them freely. Will found himself relaxing in Hannibal’s presence despite their history together. Who knew he could so easy to talk to as long as that conversation was about football and football only?

After they turned off the highway, the questions slowed to a trickle then stopped. They drifted along the empty country roads that lay between Baltimore and Annapolis wrapped in a silence that chafed, but Hannibal would not be shaken out of it. His eyes were pinched at the corners and his hands stayed clenched around the steering wheel like it was a life vest. Hannibal wasn't angry yet, merely agitated, but the anger would come eventually. Will knew that from experience. However, this was the moment before the benches got kicked over when a game was going poorly. It was the calm before the storm.

Will kept his silence and tried not get caught staring, but it was hard. Despite three years as teammates this was the most time Will had ever spent in Hannibal’s company alone. _Christ, he was attractive_. His modeling shoots did not do him justice. For one, they used too much makeup on him to smooth out his skin. In reality, Hannibal’s skin was rough from hours spent under the hot sun at practice. He was tanner too as a result, but that didn't suit the popular photo narrative generally. The photographers all wanted an Eastern European prince, fair haired and Snow White like a fairytale. Well, they were missing out. Hannibal would make a better outlaw or pirate king, which was not to say that he did not look good in his immaculately fitted and flashy suits. He looked fantastic in whatever he wore, always choosing a pattern and pocket square combination as bold and strong as his cheekbones that somehow looked natural on him. However, Hannibal presented best when his contrariness was on display and not painted over with foundation.

Both aspects of his nature, the beauty and beast, had their claws out tonight, but Hannibal seemed different in a way Will had never seen before, more human than MVP.

They got lost once, and Hannibal fidgeted and pouted like a fish on a hook until he collected his bearings and turned back onto another country road. It was...well, it was cute. It was friggin’ cute, ugh. That vulnerability made Will remember what Joel had said to him in week one after giving him the game ball: _"He wasn't always like this."_

What had happened to him since then that had made him this...unbearable? Thirteen years ago, Hannibal had won his first championship, and Will could remember the coronation like it was yesterday. He was only twenty-four, the youngest quarterback to earn a ring, and he looked radiant on that platform receiving the accolades of a nation. There were moments of laughter too like when someone slammed a Super Bowl Champions baseball cap onto his head while his back was turned. The hat disappeared into the hands of an assistant while Hannibal, pink with embarrassment, nervously fussed with his bangs in between interviews as he was lead around by the arm by Coach Du Maurier. The media would call him Goldilocks for the next season and a half and shout “Where’s the hat, Hannibal!?” at every opportunity they got. It would be years before he would become the villain of his own story and considered too vain and self-absorbed to be likeable. But what Will remembered most about that broadcast was Hannibal's smile. It was as wide as a football field is long, and it had been warm and genuine and without a trace of wickedness. Or had Will just been blind back then being a punk kid with a celebrity crush?

Will looked again at Hannibal, noting the frown lines at the corner of his mouth and the impatient flaring of his nostrils as he was forced to drive slowly behind a tractor for a quarter of a mile. His hair was no longer yellow. He had started dying it with different shades of brown, red, silver, and honey a few years ago when the first streaks of grey started appearing. He was no longer a young man. He no longer smiled. _What happened to you, Hannibal?_ Will thought, again regretting the age difference between them. How Will wished he could have played with him on even one of those three championship teams.

Will could feel the stirrings of his former crush rising up so he looked away and distracted himself by cataloging Hannibal’s most obnoxious qualities while they drove. Rows of corn grew tall on the side of the road nearly ready for harvest, but eventually they came to a break in the cornfields and turned onto a dirt road that ran up the middle of a fallow field. They drove up to a large farmhouse, nearly a manor, which had seen better days.

“Is this where the Ripper hides the bodies?” Will asked as he climbed out of the car and stretched.

“My uncle Roberto’s. It has been empty since my aunt and uncle’s passing, but it was closer to your house than mine or would have been if I had not gotten lost,” he grumbled ignoring the fact that his explanation neglected to explain WHY they were here.

“Lost? Who gets lost returning to their childhood home?”

“It has been a long time!” Hannibal snapped. “And this is not my home.” He popped the trunk and began rummaging through Will’s bag until he found what he was looking for. He held a pair of shorts, shoes, and socks in his hands, and had a football tucked under one arm. “Change,” he ordered and started tossing articles of clothing over to him. “I didn't bring keys. If you require privacy, break a window and let yourself in. I'll be around back.”

Will caught a cleat before it hit him in the head. Break a window? That didn't seem like his royal highness Hannibal Lecter? None of this did. Will remembered that Hannibal had been a local-ish boy (the family had immigrated before he started high school) before he went off to Stanford and made a national name for himself. But none of the interviews ever really talked about his past in any great detail, and Will had read ALL the interviews. Standing here now…Will had so many questions. He grew up on a farm? Hannibal? Count Hannibal Lecter? With his aunt and uncle? Where were his parents? The interviews never mentioned any family except for the sister, Mischa. Wait...had they raised cows here? Had Hannibal ever milked a cow? Oh please let it be so.

Will blinked, realizing that he was suddenly alone. It was October already and a bit cold. Will wished Hannibal had thought to unpack a shirt for him, but the Bentley was already locked and Will doubted Hannibal would be as forgiving if he broke the window of his car instead of his uncle’s house. Will finished changing and went to find Hannibal before he grew angry waiting.

Behind the house there lay a flat dirt field and two soccer goal posts. Hannibal had lost his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, and he stood on the field in his dress slacks and a pale blue shirt rolled up to elbows. He looked unfairly fine.

Will trotted over to him, and argued with the part of himself that was as wicked and mean as Hannibal. He knew he should be out here trying to make peace with his meal ticket, but the savory sweetness of payback called to him too. “Are you even a Count? Or did you make that part up to fit in with your Ivy League friends at Stanford? Oh my God! Is...is that a chicken coop over there!?” he teased when virtue and common sense finally lost to his baser nature.

Hannibal ignored him, but Will thought he heard the tell-tale grinding of teeth above the crunch of dry leaves. “Warm up. Then I want to see you execute the routes Kaiseki, Reveles, and Rôti.”

“So after an unsatisfactory dinner of snails and oysters you’re going to make me practice?”

“I need to understand what kind of raw material I have to work with.”

“After three years you don't know that already?” Will meant to sound biting, but the accusation betrayed his hurt feelings. Will made up for it with his best glare.

“Coach Du Maurier coddles you.” Hannibal said and placed his hand on Will’s shoulder. “I don't say this to offend you, but you learned your limitations too soon and never discovered your true power on the field. Frankly, that’s what had irritated me for years about you. I see your talent in flashes, but you hold back and I’ve never understood why. It will be different now if you let it. I will break you and remake you.”

Will was silent. If Hannibal considered the last three years coddling, he wasn't sure he would survive the next three weeksl. But maybe that was fine. Better to go down having given it everything you’ve got. If Hannibal couldn't transform him, no one could.

“I'm giving you a rare gift, Will. I won't promise to be kind, but I will never lie to you. Would you refuse me still?” Hannibal’s voice was honey-sweet and cloying, and the hand that held Will's shoulder felt like it was wrapped around his neck instead. Is this what it was like to make a deal with the devil?

“No, I'm done being buried at the bottom of the depth charts. Go ahead and break me, asshole, but don't you dare let me down.”

Hannibal’s smile was as sweet as kale and twice as pretentious. “What a smart mouth you have there, but I think I've heard enough from it for now. Warm up or shall I do it for you. I seem to recall having some skill in that area.” To make his point clearer, his tongue flicked across his bottom lip in a way that left nothing to doubt.

Will didn't know how he kept himself from decking Hannibal. How dare he?! How dare he mock Will for the kiss HE had stolen!? What a complete prick! Will was sorry for ever feeling bad for him.

“I’d rather kiss a Wookiee.”

Hannibal blinked in surprise not expecting THAT response. “A what?”

Game. Set. Match. Jackass.

…

They worked all afternoon and into the evening, and by sundown Will no longer wished for a shirt. He was melting. His chest was covered in a thick sheen of sweat and everything hurt. Fuck. The gym was going to be hell tomorrow.

“What’s the matter? Tired?” Hannibal taunted.

“You’re a sadist,” Will panted. He was pretty sure he was going to puke if Hannibal made him run any more routes tonight.

Hannibal looked up at the moon, considering a stray thought and shrugged. “Perhaps, but I am sadist who would like to go to bed before morning. Are you quite done yet?”

“Let me catch my breath!”

“Blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel our radiance, William. Suck it up.”

“Go. To hell.”

“Glady, AFTER I win you that diamond ring, dearest.” Hannibal grinned and tossed the football to him with a soft underhanded throw. “There is one last thing I need to see. I want you to close your eyes and imagine this scenario: it’s third and long with only five seconds remaining. This is the last play of the game. You have four receivers on the field against the League’s best defense.”

Will looked at the football and tightened his grip on the leather to keep his hands from shaking. “That's the final play from Super Bowl 48,” the one they had lost. “But...you...want me to throw?”

Hannibal rolled his eyes. “Of course. Is your hearing as poor as your slant routes? You show up at the facilities everyday before the others arrive to work on your quarterback drills. In the beginning, I thought you were doing it to annoy me after you started stealing some of my routines. So yes, I want to see you throw.”

“How is this relev--,” Will started to say and was cut short with a look from “the Ripper.”

“It. Just. Is. Now, close your eyes and show me what you’re made of “Will” Graham out of LSU. Show me what I missed that day.” Hannibal’s body language was strong and insistent, and Will could believe that this was the most serious order he had ever given in his life. 

Understanding struck Will with the force of a linebacker. He didn't have the experience that Hannibal’s former favorites had, and he wasn't a virtuoso at the receiver position like Randall. But Will had one skill none of Hannibal’s other receivers’ had ever possessed: _he had been a quarterback._ This day wasn't just an evaluation of Will’s strengths and weaknesses as a player. Hannibal needed to know that Will could see and understand him in return. With his current offensive line being more of a liability than an asset, Hannibal needed to cut back on the time it took to release the ball. What he needed was a receiver that could anticipate his thoughts and adjust without being given instruction. THIS was the cornerstone he expected to build his offense around.

Will closed his eyes, shook out his limbs, and tried to ignore the sour feeling in his stomach. This was it. This was the real test and everything else had been merely a warm-up. Shit! How was this all coming back to his being a quarterback before Baltimore!? It had been three years since he had taken a snap under center. That was a long time. Football years were like dog years multiplied by two. No...he couldn't think about that now. He had to close his eyes. Visualize. Win. Hannibal was waiting. _Waiting to see... **him**._

The dirt and corn fields disappeared when Will closed his eyes and were replaced with the harsh stadium lighting of the Meadowlands. He was standing on the field weighted down by his football pads and the eyes of eighty-three thousand attendees. “Gator. Gator,” he shouted calling _his team_ to the line. They weren't Ravenstag signals, but the team responded to Will’s college era play calling as if they were. This was make-believe after all, and the reconstruction was under his control. Will looked across the offensive line and at the defensive ends and tackles who were gunning for him. He dissected their defensive scheme and knew they'd come at him from the right. Next he identified who the leader on this play was since the Buffalo Bills liked to change it up from moment to moment. “Thirteen is the mic,” he informed his own linemen, meaning #13 was the leader on the defense. The commands “Maverick, Viper, Goose,” let the receiving corps know what routes to run. As the first wide receiver on the depth chart, Randall was supposed to run the fly route, aka Maverick, a speedy straight shot into the endzone. The game clock was winding down. Will knew he needed to get the ball out before he was penalized for a delay of game, but some odd shuffling on the defense caught his eye. They were lining up to block Maverick. They knew. The defense had read his play. Too late to call to the sidelines now. Not enough time. Game on the line. Think! “Goose Reverse Free! Hut hut!” he shouted at the last second.

The ball was snapped. Will caught it, dropped back, and looked downfield for Randall. Sure enough, his best receiver was under double coverage. Will could get the ball to the end zone, but would he catch it? Of course he would. _Randall caught everything._ He was Will’s best receiver, but Will hesitated. He went to his second read, but Viper hadn't managed to break through the linebackers blocking the middle of the field. Meanwhile, Will’s pocket of protection was collapsing. He’d be eating turf soon if he didn't force the ball to Randall.

Will looked for Goose, the aging veteran receiver who Will had given permission to freestyle the play if he saw a better opportunity. And there he was—too slow to reach the end zone but open. Will launched the ball to the outside right and held his breath. It was a beautiful pass, easy to catch and placed perfectly. Goose caught the ball and took off for the end zone. It seemed to take forever because Goose was so much slower than the younger receivers, but he had an unobstructed path to victory so it didn't matter.

Will let the reconstruction fall away before the confetti began to fall. It was too painful to let himself live what might have been. When he opened his eyes he had expected to find the ball in the dirt, but instead he found Hannibal, ball in hand, running it in for the “touchdown.” He had intuited which receiver’s spot to line up at and which route to freestyle that would put him in position to catch the ball in an alternate reality where the quarterback of the Baltimore Ravenstags had NOT thrown that risky pass to Randall Tier that day and lost the game. And he had trusted Will to see the answer.

Hannibal spiked the ball and shouted in triumph. On this empty field with no ambient noise to dampen it, he sounded like a lion, feral and hungry. It gave Will a chill to watch him pump his fist in the air and turn back around. Hannibal ran back to Will and wrapped him up in a headlock. “Cunning boy! That was perfect!” He ruffled Will’s damp hair before shoving off. Tired and unprepared for this volatile and physical show of exuberance, Will got tangled up in his own feet and fell.

“Ouch! Jesus Christ!”

“Oh, get up, we have work to do.” Hannibal reached down and offered his hand.

Will choked when he looked up into Hannibal’s face. He was smiling…actually smiling and not like he was about to bring the hurt to his opponent. He looked decades younger and filled with that eager, innocent ambition he had worn about him when he was still just a boy prince.

The King was back. Long live the King.

“Why are you so happy?” Hannibal asked.

“No reason.” Will said realizing that he was smiling too. Damn, he’d let Hannibal’s excitement bleed into him. He’d need to be more careful in the future if they were going to be working more closely together.

Will stood up. He brushed the dirt off his shorts and the punched Hannibal in the shoulder. “Well, what do you think of your raw materials now?”

“I'm still not sure what I have—something between iron and gold I think.”

“Well...want to go again, old man? Or did you lose your wind already?”

Hannibal's smile faded as all things must. “You’re going to regret this petty rudeness, William. I promise you.”

“And you always keep your promises, right?”

“ _Always.”_


	10. We're On To Minnesota

The Ravenstags had had their bye week in Week Five this year, which meant that on Tuesday, rather than report to practice they all went home for a week and rested. No game on Sunday! Ordinarily, an early bye week was a drag. Teams always wanted to get one of the later bye weeks when the they were most tired and injured. But this year, the early bye week became a blessing in disguise.

While Will and Hannibal could not meet up at the team facilities as per union rules, they were free to “hang out” as civilians.

There were more dinners and lunches where they discussed strategy at restaurants much less fine than the first, presumably to save Hannibal from embarrassment lest Will act out again, which was a good call. Will was bad at behaving, but who could blame him. Hannibal could be _so damn annoying!_

Since Will was not allowed to order a beer at any of these meals, he had gotten creative with his insubordination. “This is a business meeting,” Hannibal would say. “You will have water and a lemon. It’s healthier.” But when Hannibal would leave to use the restroom or become so distracted by a replay on his tablet, Will would always seize the opportunity to order a dessert. Once he even called ahead and arranged to have a two tier birthday cake brought to them in the middle of dinner. There was singing involved. _It was_ _great_ _._ Hannibal had walked out of the restaurant and shown up on Will’s doorstep at 3AM with two kale and pineapple smoothies in his hands and revenge on the brain.

Will avoided Anthony during the bye week and canceled a day trip to the country for reasons that extended beyond Hannibal’s warnings about sleeping with reporters. This thing he had with Anthony was great, but football was Will’s true passion. It came first over everything but family; it had to! He was so close to everything he had always wanted!  He didn't even feel that bad about blowing off Anthony, and that's what made Will the most sad. Was this the road that Hannibal had taken? Shrugging off emotional attachments in pursuit of fame and fortune? Well, if he ended up bitter and alone like Hannibal, at least he’d know he deserved it.

After the bye week ended, the team was allowed back into the facilities. Will showed up at his usual time and stood in front of the doorway with his head held high. Today the sunlit words appeared to wink down at him. Smiling. Encouraging. Waiting. Today was the first day of his transformation.

Adapt.

Evolve.

_**Become.** _

Unsurprisingly, the media had not let up on Hannibal or the Ravenstags since Kansas City. Every sports channel, talk radio, or web forum continued the funerary services for the washed-up old Ravenstags; it was barbaric. The celebration had more in common with Mardi Gras than a burial. But if the hit pieces affected the players mentally, they dealt with it privately. Not one player had leaked their feelings, positive or negative, to any journalists. That was a good sign. It meant no one had lost focus during the break. Let the rest of the world remain focused on Kansas City. The Ravenstags were on to Minnesota.

Will dropped his stuff off at his new locker beside Hannibal’s—the one formerly occupied by Randall Tier and later Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He did his workouts alone until Hannibal materialized like a phantom when it was time for his quarterback drills and immediately began to lecture him.

“How did you ever become a starter at LSU with such poor posture? The fact that you are even able to throw the ball in a straight line is a scientific miracle. It defies physics, William!”

Will bit his lip, torn between anger and worry.

They were playing a game, a game Hannibal had invented, so naturally Will had good reason to be nervous. Will would throw the football fifteen times and try to sink it into a trash can along the far wall of the gym. If he succeeded, he would move farther away from the trash can. If he missed, he would remain where he was. If Will sunk more balls than the missed, he could ask any one favor from Hannibal and vice versa, but Hannibal would not disclose what he hoped to win in return.

“Well, unlike some quarterbacks, I won my job fair and square. _I didn't have to_ _murder_ _anyone_ to do it,” Will fired back.

There were two sides to Hannibal’s rags-to-riches story depending on how beloved an icon he was to you. In the first version, Hannibal was the classic Cinderella story, the frog that no one had wanted until Coach Du Maurier took a wild chance on him in the sixth round and turned him into a prince. In the other, he was the team albatross and an ill omen wherever he went. In high school, college, and on the Ravenstags, Hannibal had started third or fourth on **every** depth chart he'd ever been on. But through a combination of his own effort and a string of freak injuries to the starting quarterbacks ahead of him, he had worked his way to the top of the charts each time. No one seriously believed Hannibal had done anything nefarious to his competitors. Deep as his sadistic streak, Will didn't think he was evil, but it was fun to tease him. Hannibal was the kind of man who did not want to share his successes with anything as banal as dumb luck so it was a particularly effective line of taunting.

“That’s ironic, William, since you are only here _BECAUSE_ of a murder,” Hannibal said referring to the ongoing Hobbs investigation, which continued to take increasingly darker turns. Hobbs was now formally charged with the murder of three different women, not that you would know it by watching ESPN. Football fans were interested in blood only when it happened on the field, and nothing in Week Five had been enough to distract from the slow-heat death of the Baltimore Ravenstags.

Here was the thing about football: once a player was released, they ceased to exist. Forget injuries; forget declining production; hell, forget criminal charges.  As Hobbs proved, you could kill someone and be forgotten a month later.

“William, are you listening?”

“No” Will said as he sunk another throw into the trashcan. The score was 7-7, absolutely terrible. Will blamed Hannibal almost entirely since he was the one who insisted Will’s stance and throwing motion had needed a complete overhaul. Hannibal had pinched and pulled Will’s body into all manner of new and small directions, posing him like a mannequin instead of treating him like a pupil.

The mental toll it took on him was the worst part. The throws Will landed were deemed “pedestrian,” and the ones he missed “mercifully better than before,” which only confused Will even more. If this was some new sort of mind game, Will wanted to fold. It would be like Hannibal to present Will with an impossible Kobashi Maru scenario to waste himself on in the service of his ultimate agenda. Hannibal might not go as far as hurting another player to advance himself, but this level of subterfuge fit perfectly into his catalog. But if the point of all this was to break Will down mentally in order to make him more pliable and deferential to Hannibal’s wants and whims, _it was not going to work._ The Grahams were a stubborn family.

“Do you have plans after practice?” Hannibal asked.

“Yup.”

“Cancel them.” His tone implied that there was no room for negotiation.

“Okay, as you wish, your highness,” Will fished another ball out of the bag and paused for dramatic effect. “Hey, Goldilocks, I can't see you tonight. I know you probably wanted to go over game tape, but some asshole wants me to go out with him and eat snails or some shit. Sorry for canceling.”

It was a dumb joke and poorly constructed, but Will was still one breakfast smoothie away from being fully awake. His arrangement with Hannibal required him to report to the facilities two hours earlier than normal, and he intended to make-up for those lost hours of sleep with a disproportionate amount of salt and sass.

Will stepped back to throw, but as his arm swung forward to release the ball, Hannibal shoved him. The pigskin spun out of his hands erratically and landed near the free weights. It was the football equivalent of a foul ball.

“That’s cheating!”

“I see no flag.”

“It’s still cheating! Roughing the passer!” Will countered.

Hannibal snorted. “You call that rough? How embarrassingly vanilla.”

Fine! Let him have his petty victory. There would be a reckoning later. Will swore it! He stretched his arm over his head and popped the joint in his stiff rotator cuff to release the pressure. “So let’s hear it. What do you win?”

“You will stop calling me ‘your highness,’ ‘your majesty,’ or any derivative thereof: effictive _immediately.”_

Will blinked. That was far tamer than he expected and weird. “For how long?”

“Forever preferably! And if I cannot have that, then I ask that you refrain from calling me names until you have won our little game.”

Will was puzzled. He couldn't believe something as small and inconsequential as this had been affecting their relationship as teammates. “Does it bother you? I thought you liked the attention. _”_ HAH! Everyone knew that Hannibal lived for attention.

“No, _William,_ I am not bothered at all,” Hannibal said snidely and placed his hands on his hips. “Besides it isn't even accurate. ‘Your grace’ would at least be the correct address.”

Geez, point made. “Where are we meeting after practice? I assume we’re watching film.”

With the topic of football brought back to mind, Hannibal’s ruff settled down. “Come to the quarterback’s room.”

Will winced. “Can we do it someplace else?” he asked remembering the awkward and emotionally devastating kiss they had shared there. He could bring himself to work with Hannibal. He might even enjoy it sometimes, but he couldn't forgive or forget what had happened in that room.

Hannibal rolled his eyes. “Why ever not, Wi--”

An awkward pause as large as a linebacker muscled its way between the two men.

“Oh,” was all Hannibal said as follow up.

“Yeah. ‘Oh,’ is right, your hi--,” Will cut off. Hannibal was not the only one who kept his promises. They’d made a bet, and he had lost. He didn't lose fairly, but in Baltimore it was a well known that there was no excuse for losing.

“Wait for me in the locker room then. I have to debrief the coaching staff and rattle sabers with Coach Du Maurier about how we changed her entire game plan after practice. We’ll find another place that is more _neutral_ to you and I.”

“YOU MEAN YOU HAVEN’T TOLD HER!?”

Hannibal flashed one of his cruel half-smiles and picked up his gym bag. “Oh course not! Where’s the fun in that? These kinds of surprises are good for her. Good for us all, I’d argue.”

Will was really starting to hate Hannibal’s surprises.

...

Hannibal’s definition of neutral territory left much to be desired, particularly the part that included breaking into the head coach’s office. This wasn't Switzerland; it was No Man’s Land! Will was sweating, nauseous, and growing dizzy with worry with each change Hannibal made to the room. Hannibal might not have any cause for alarm, but it was different for Will. This was how players like him got cut from the team: doing stupid shit...exactly like this.

All the furniture had to be reshuffled before they could watch tape. Coach Du Maurier, being a petite woman in charge of a team of very large and aggressive men, had laid out her office in such a way as to make players purposefully uncomfortable. Will might have managed being quite small himself, but there was no way Hannibal was contorting his 6’4 frame into odd angles to conform to Coach Du Maurier's psychologically precise aesthetics if he didn't have to.

“What if she comes back?”

“She won't. _She’s furious with me._ ” Hannibal’s eyes were alight with mischief and delight as he relived the memory such that they glowed in the dimly lit office while he grappled with an armchair. “She’ll be at home marinating in a bubble bath and halfway through a bottle of Dom Perignon already. Speaking of which, Will, remove the top drawer of her desk. There is a key taped to the back of it. Bring it to me.”

Will brought him he key and then immediately regretted it when Hannibal used the key on Coach Du Maurier's wine cabinet.

“Red or white?” Hannibal asked cheerfully.

“Uh, I don't know about this.”

“Ah, something pink then,” Hannibal cut in. “An excellent choice, William! Thank you for your suggestion.”

“Oh no! Not me! I had nothing to do with it,” Will said waving his arms and backed away as far and as fast as he could. “I'm not going to be your patsy, Hannibal. How do you even know about that key? And how did you get in here in the first place!?” The door was already unlocked when Hannibal had texted and summoned him to the office.

“I placed a piece of duct tape over the lock when I was in here earlier. The door locks automatically when it is closed, and Coach Du Maurier does not always check it when she leaves for the evening, especially not when she's angry,” Hannibal crowed. “As for the key, I know about it because _I put it there_. See, it is a game between us. I sneak in here and take a bottle from her collection when I am particularly annoyed by her, and in return, she receives another excuse to drink. How advantageous for us both.”

“You’re the devil, aren’t you? You really are.”

Hannibal shrugged and probably felt flattered by the comparison. “Occasionally, she tries to stop me by changing the lock or threatens to trade me when I have chosen a particularly fine year. Hah! As if she could. I'm far more useful to her than any rare vintage.”

“Being a rare and well-aged vintage yourself.”

Hannibal’s hand tightened around the neck of a bottle. “With age comes wisdom, and three championship rings, “ he said and put the bottle down. “What do you have to show for all your _‘youth and vigor’_?” he said, air quoting a snippet from the _Times_ article eulogizing him last week and alerting to Will just how thin the ice was where he stood. It wasn't that Hannibal was angry at Will or any of his teammates for the occasional jibe at his age—not generally. How could he be? It was all true. In football years Hannibal was ancient. He had seen everything, done everything, and watched as one by one all his friends retired and moved on. And he took a lot of pride in that. At the age of thirty seven he had started in 237 games, winning 187 of them, more than any other quarterback in history. That was something to be proud of...usually.

“I will tell you what you have: three years at the bottom of the depth charts. Three years being _average at best_.” Hannibal was no longer even looking at Will. He had eyes only for the wall of photos, which ordinarily hung behind Coach Du Maurier’s desk when it was where it was supposed to be. The photos were the snapshots of their victories and defeats. They represented the combined history of their dynasty. “Just what do you have to show for it?” Hannibal murmured talking to no one in particular now.

“That’s not true. I have three years of being a Ravenstag. Three years surviving in a place I had no place being.” Three years providing for his family, what little of it remained. “Nothing means more to me than that, Hannibal. Nothing. We’re not so different in that regard.”

Hannibal snorted and poured himself a glass leaving the other one empty. “We are identically different, William. I made the most of my suffering. You merely suffered.”

And then Will understood.

 _He’s not convinced I can do this,_ Will realized with horror. He’d assumed he had passed the last of Hannibal’s little tests on that field outside his childhood home, but it appeared now that that had only been round one. After a week of one-on-one practices, they had gained an intimate knowledge of one another's strengths and weaknesses as players, and in the end, one side was experiencing buyer’s remorse. _He’s been putting a good face on it because I’m all he’s got, but he genuinely believes I’m not capable at playing at an elite level._ That was why he still called Will, William. That’s why the second wine glass remained empty…

The doubt wounded Will’s pride, but the fear of failure was a tougher cross to bear. He couldn't lose this opportunity. He couldn't!  This was supposed to be his becoming. _His next contact MUST set him and Abigail up for life_ , and beyond that, Will wanted this for himself. It startled him to realize how **much** he wanted to become Hannibal’s knife. He hadn't wanted anything as badly as this since his mom started chemotherapy so many years ago. Now, it seemed like he would lose everything—again. How did he make Hannibal see him as an equal?

“That’s why we're going to crush them this weekend, and not just the Shrikes. We’re going to bring the whole League to its knees,” Will said testing the waters by appealing to Hannibal’s violent nature. He needed a way to win back Hannibal’s confidence.

“Save ourselves, kill them all?” Hannibal murmured. He swirled the rosé around his glass, sniffed it, and took an elegant sip.

“It’s the Ravenstag way.”

Hannibal was silent for awhile, choosing his words next words carefully. “Sit...please,” and he filled the second glass.

…

Watching game tape with Hannibal at the facility was nothing like Will had imagined. Outside the facility he was curt, dolled up, and always grumpy. Here in his natural habitat, the tiger was more relaxed and tame by comparison. He was still a jerk, but a playful one. The tone was almost convivial. Will wondered if this was the Hannibal the coaching staff all saw behind closed doors over the late night strategy meetings.

Nothing escaped his notice. He called things out Will didn’t remember the other coaches, even Coach Du Maurier, covering during team-wide screenings. “She is responsible for the big picture, for deciding which look the offense and defense will present each week. Whereas I have to be concerned with the individuals on the field. She can’t see every shift of the opposing defense when we line up. They are too nuanced, too small, and too personal,” Hannibal explained. “But I’m sure you already know all of this having carried that weight before. You did an admirable job reading a defense as far back as high school.”

“You’ve seen my games?” Will asked, stunned that they even existed in a viewable form.

Hannibal ignored the question and refilled Will’s wine glass. “I believe your second sight is the edge that’s allowed you to stay afloat here while much better receivers were let go. But you miss things, William, and I can’t have that. I need you to see the game as I do, and then I hope, you’ll be better at seeing me. We could be great together, but only after our thinking is fully conjoined. However, we have been out of step since the beginning if you recall.”

“How could I forget?” It had been a disastrous first meeting and worse, Randall had witnessed it all. Will’s tradition of showing up early began on the very first day of training camp, and it was in the weight room that he and Hannibal clashed barely a minute after hello’s were exchanged. Will had still been a little starstruck, and committed the felony offense of not taking the team seriously when he asked for an autograph ostensibly for his little sister.  “I have no time for children,” Hannibal had snarled while Randall stood at his side howling with laughter. “If you want an autograph, you can buy it online.”

The misstep might have been repaired in time were it not for Randall egging on the feud. For weeks, Randall would leave presents in Will’s locker: empty coffee cups, a dirty socks, a toothbrush. All would have his broad, sloppy signature smeared across it. Will told no one about the hazing. He did not want to blow it with the rest of the offense by earning a reputation as a snitch, but Will came to resent Hannibal for the blatant favoritism he displayed towards Randall by turning a blind eye to all his shenanigans. He never found out what Hannibal’s problem was that had finally caused him to go to Coach Du Maurier and ask for Will’s release, but he was sure Randall was involved.

Three years later, the wounds they had dealt each other showed signs of healing as they sat in the dark side by side, watching the dreaded Kansas City game together. They hadn’t watched this game yet. It had been too fresh and too personal to objectively break down, with the media still in such a frenzy over the loss. But time was the great equalizer of all things, and after the defense’s sixth failed attempt to stop a third down conversion by the Kansas City Braves, Will surprised himself by laughing. “At least we can’t take all the credit for the loss. Did anyone have a good game that night?”

Hannibal gave Will a sidelong look, and Will worried he’d pissed him off again.

“That ball boy looks to be having a fabulous night,” Hannibal winked and pointed.

On screen, one of the ball boys was hurling obscenities at a crowd of boisterous Braves fans, but that’s not what caught Will’s attention. In the right corner, he saw Hannibal and Erik having it out. “Hey, look! In the corner pocket! I thought Erik was going to shit himself when you stood up.”

Hannibal turned his attention to the screen and frowned. On the film, he began to walk away from Erik, pausing momentarily to glance back at Will. 

“I meant what I said that night. Rudeness is unspeakably ugly to me,” Hannibal said before reaching behind his neck to rub at a spot of tension. “Especially in myself. What happened before...it won’t happen again. It was…unprofessional of me. I am sorry for what I did to you.”

Will blinked, unsure whether he had heard what he thought he had. Did Hannibal just...apologize? “Yeah, okay, man. It’s okay.”

They watched the final quarter in near silence. When it was over, Will yawned. “It’s getting late. Perhaps we should pack it up?”

“Soon. There is one more game I want to review with you. It won’t take long. We need only watch one quarter.”

“Uh...okay.”

Hannibal picked up the remote and thumbed through the list of games saved onto Coach Du Maurier’s Smart TV. He seemed very comfortable rifling through her files leaving Will to wonder just how often he broke into her office and stole her “hooch.”

Hannibal frowned as he selected the desired file, leaned back, and put his his legs up onto Will’s lap.

Will was about to shove them off when he noticed the date on the screen: September 2008. A young Hannibal was warming up on screen, readying to go against the Tennessee Olympians, an average team that should have been easily beaten. It was a game that meant nothing and everything at the same time. Losing it wouldn’t even affect the Ravenstags’s standings in the conference since they were an NFC team, but the 2008 Ravenstags were about to lose and lose bigtime because this was the game that almost ended the legend of Hannibal Lecter. Three minutes into the first quarter, strong safety Tobias Budge would slam into Hannibal on a low hit from his blind side, and the thirty-one year old’s season would be over.

Will remembered watching this game live. It had made him sick to watch. “Why are we doing this?”

“Cassidy Aykers, he was the Safeties Coach of the Olympians in ‘08. Now, he works in Minnesota as the Defensive Coordinator. He will try this on Sunday.”

“Are you worried?”

Hannibal crossed his arms over his chest and rested his head against the concrete wall of Coach Du Maurier’s small office. “No,” he said, closing his eyes like he was merely sleepy and not dreading what was about to occur on-screen. “I have given my offensive line orders to review the play extensively in preparation. I will not be caught unaware again.”

“He who holds the devil better hold him well. He will hardly be caught a second time.”

“Precisely. And...I thought you should see it too. I am feeling...whimsical for some strange reason.”

Will watched as a young man with hair as gold as the cornfields he grew up among smiled and laughed along with his teammates. He shook hands with his opponents. Blew kisses at his fans, and Will began to recall why he had been so enamored with the younger Hannibal.

The game officially began, and the Ravenstags were on the march towards what appeared to be a touchdown drive. Will put a comforting hand on Hannibal’s leg as the offense lined up for the next play. The ball was snapped; Hannibal danced in the pocket waiting for a receiver to get open; and swooping in on his right side was Budge. The Olympian dove for Hannibal’s legs, helmet smashing into his knee, which bent at an impossible angle.

Will felt the muscles in Hannibal’s leg twitch. He looked at his quarterback whose eyes were now open. In the present, Hannibal’s eyes looked dull and lifeless as he watched himself fall. On screen, Hannibal lay in a heap clutching his knee with one hand screaming into the dirt; his knuckles were white with pain. Medical staff from both teams rushed onto the field while the replay aired on the Jumbotrons of a silent stadium. An injury time out was called, but up in the command center, the production crew had neglected to immediately shut off Hannibal’s mic. “My leg! My leg! _He took my leg!_ ”  Hannibal shouted. His voice was laced with pain and the rage Will that had grown all too familiar with.

Realizing their mistake, the production crew cut the sound and Hannibal disappeared behind a curtain of coaches and trainers. Miraculously, he re-emerged minutes later limping off the field under his own power. The stadium cheered, but one look at the Ravenstag sideline told any football player what they needed to know about Hannibal’s health: he was done.

Will rubbed Hannibal’s calf trying to ease the tension from the muscles which had knotted from merely the memory of that pain. Hannibal didn’t tell Will to stop. He didn’t say anything at all and just sat staring at a spot on Bedelia’s wall of memories, an empty spot. Will wondered what he saw there.

“What happened to you, Hannibal?” Will asked, trying to break the uncomfortable silence. Hannibal had come back from the injury in 2009, winning the award for Comeback Player of the Year, but it was clear to anyone who knew him that he hadn’t come back in spirit.

“Nothing happened to me. I happened.” Hannibal picked up the remote and was about to switch the show off when the commentary caught his attention.

“Boy, you hate to see a thing like this happen to such a talented young man. An injury like this could be career ending, Phil. I doubt we'll ever see the same dominant play from poor Goldilocks again.”

“I hate that name,” Hannibal snarled and slammed his thumb down on the power button.

“What do you think they’ll call us?” Will asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Hannibal scoffed like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing on the heels of the game they had just watched. “The Odd Couple perhaps?”

“Ugh, I was thinking about something a little sexier, like Calvin and Hobbs.”

“Which one of us gets to be the tiger?” he asked, purposefully grinning to flash his pronounced canines.

“Me of course. Isn’t it obvious? You’re the eight-year-old bed-wetter.”

[](http://78.media.tumblr.com/ee26adb6c4aada9ec00aa80f64beadc3/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o2_1280.png)  
[Click to enlarge.](http://78.media.tumblr.com/ee26adb6c4aada9ec00aa80f64beadc3/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o2_1280.png)


	11. Becoming

Will fell in step behind Hannibal as the team moved through the tunnel approaching the field. It was silent but for the shuffling of feet and crunch of protective pads as fifty three men moved as one towards the killing fields. The air began to hum with the intelligible chants of the crowd the nearer they got to the large open-air stadium, but in time, Will began to pick out a measured and discernible cadence.

“Lec-ter. Lec-ter. Lec-ter.”

The chant made Will feel warm down to his bones as sixty-six thousand voices shrugged off a week’s worth of bullishit for the love of one man.

Football is a team sport. Successful drives only occurred when all eleven men on the field understood their jobs and executed them perfectly. Sure there were superstars, but the Ravenstags had spent sixteen years developing a culture that was hostile towards that environment. An individual did not supercede the game plan except for tonight. Tonight they had abandoned their tradition of walking onto the field as one unit because tonight meant something special. It was either a beginning or an end to the legend of Hannibal Lecter.

Will didn't mind sharing the spotlight even though this was supposed to be his coming out party too. Besides, Will Graham was a virtual unknown; the team's punt returner and third string receiver. How would anyone know that he was also the twist ending to this unreliable fairytale? In a short time, Will would finally be given the chance to show the world what he was made of— _to show himself what he was made of._

“Lec-ter. Lec-ter! Lec-TER! LEC-TER!”

One day, some of those cheers would be for him and it would be Hannibal sharing his spotlight (okay maybe not, but it made his heart race to think about it).

Meanwhile, Hannibal walked unhurried at the head of his army and emerged onto the field under a hail of pyrotechnics and smoke. The crowd erupted into cheers as Hannibal raised his helmet into the air by the face mask and held it like a torch. He spun in a slow circle letting the entire stadium see him standing tall, proud, and eager to win. The defeated man from the tabloids did not cling to him now. Here was the Chesapeake Ripper reborn in fire.

Will rushed onto the field deciding when Hannibal had had enough, and the team hurtled past him to accepted their own adulation from the assembled masses. Will whacked his quarterback on the butt as he jogged past. “You done blowing kisses at the crowd yet, Prince Charming?”

“Bite me, peasant.” Hannibal said playing along. With one final look at the crowd, he walked with Will to the sideline where the coaching staff were waiting. Over the loud speakers Outfield's _Your Love_ worked the crowd into a frenzy; it was a particular favorite of the former quarterback, Joe Defoster, who was guest announcing that night.

>   _“I just want to use your love toniiiiiight_
> 
> _I don't want to lose your love toniiiiiight._
> 
> _But something in my mind's not making sense_
> 
> _It's been a while since we were all alone_
> 
> _But I can't hide the way I'm feeling.”_

Will smiled and found himself waving back at the crowd in genuinely high spirits. That was it, wasn't it? What they were fighting for—to be loved and remembered not as the villains of the NFL but as heroes to their friends, fans, and family. Hannibal was ready. The Ravenstags were ready, and Will thought he was finally ready too. It was time to play some football!

The Ravenstags won the coin toss and chose to receive the ball, which was a break from their usual pattern of differing to their opponent so they could always start the second half with the ball in their possession.

“William!” Hannibal shouted. “Come here.”

Will broke away from the receiving corps and joined Hannibal in the coaching huddle for the first time.

“What will it be, Coach Du Maurier? Shall I roast them? Filet them? Or perhaps just skin them all alive,” Hannibal said looking up into the stands at a Minnesota fan who proudly waved a profane poster in front of the Ravenstags sideline.

“Air this first ball out and give the folks at home something to really chew on,” Coach Du Maurier instructed. She was dressed to the nines in a blood red designer dress and a heavy blazer in defiance of the League’s dress code. According to the bylaws, coaches were required to wear only NFL branded gear onto the field. Anything else would be considered blatant disrespect to the NFL shield and carried a hefty fine, but what did Coach Du Maurier care? The dress probably cost as much as the fine would. Plus, it made an irrefutable statement: _Come at us. Come at us with_ **_everything_ ** _you have, boys._

“Maybe they’ll even choke on it,” Will said rolling with the kitchen humor. He was nervous about being in these coaching huddles after so many years on the outside, and the nerves made him brash (and somewhat corny.) It would be easier when he was out on the field and able to channel that energy into his game, he reminded himself.

Hannibal huffed feigning seriousness, but Will caught the ghost of a smile before it disappeared beneath the ol’ Lecter austerity. “Do you care how I do it?” After this many years in the League, Hannibal was capable of coaching himself, although perhaps not as systematically as Coach Du Maurier. She was a tactician, he an artist. Their mastery of the game was achieved only because they had learned how to blend their two ideologies together.

“Dealers choice, but don't you throw for less than twenty-five yards, Hannibal.”

“As you wish. You two, with me,” Hannibal said and pointed at the team’s two best running backs.

The offense ran onto the field and took their position. Will lined up on the outside beside their own sideline. He was covered by only a single defender while the Shrikes shifted to defend against what “appeared” to be a running play with TWO running backs flanking Hannibal in the Ravenstags' backfield.

A defense was made of two main parts. The line, which stood opposite the quarterback and his protection, and the secondary. The secondary stood behind the line of scrimmage, where the offensive and defensive lines squared off, in what was called the backfield. It was their job to pressure the receiving corps and break up passes.

The ball was snapped. Will rushed forward, sliding easily around the cornerback. Behind him, he knew Hannibal would be executing the double feint, stepping back, and…

Will reached his position, twisted, and caught the ball as it sailed gracefully into his hands. By now the Shrikes’ defense had realized how badly they had been out-maneuvered and were scrambling after Will who kept running. He was brought down at the forty-nine yard line in the Shrikes' territory for a gain of thirty-two yards. The response from the crowd was electric. “He’s baaaaaack,” the fans seemed to say in their own unique ways.

 _And so am I_ , Will thought to himself.

The next set of downs was less successful. After an incomplete pass to Brian and two failed running attempts, it was fourth down and the Ravenstags were one yard short of a first down. Conventional wisdom said to punt the ball away. This early in the game there was no need to risk giving up good field position to your opponent, but Hannibal signaled to the sideline that he wished to stay in, and this time Coach Du Maurier nodded her consent.

Hannibal called for the snap and executed his favorite play, the Quarterback Sneak, flawlessly. On the second down of the next set of four, Hannibal could find no open receivers and ran the ball up the middle himself for a gain of twelve yards and another first down. Will could see the Ravenstags cackling with laughter as they watched the replay of that run. Hannibal was a perennial pocket passer and had never been fast or mobile even before his injury in 2008. To see him run was as surprising as it was hysterical. He had the gait of a juvenile giraffe, and while the night was still young, that play would almost certainly top the highlight reel this week.

“My grandmother runs faster than him,” Brian whispered to Will in the huddle.

“Maybe she would like to be his backup. Does your grandmother look as good in tight pants?” Will shot back.

“Godddamnit, Will! Thanks for the fucking nightmares!”

“I heard _ALL_ of that,” Hannibal growled. “So help me, if either of you makes a single mistake on this next play I will remove your organs through your nose.”

“My apologies, your grace. You are as fleet-footed as Apollo,” Will said bowing at the waist.

“Hephaestus maybe,” Jimmy snorted.

“GO!” Hannibal roared, his anger palpable even over the crowd noise, but it was relief to hear him so geared up again. It was one of the many things missing from the game in Kansas City, and everyone on the team felt the difference. Historically, the Ravenstags always did their best when the Ripper was at his worst.

And speaking of backups, Matthew Brown was doing his best to look small on camera. It was clear tonight was not going the way he had hoped and expected, but he too was a problem for another day. There was still a lot of football left to play.

The next play of the game was one of the new packages, and the ball was intended to go to Will for a big gain. But Hannibal’s guard’s folded under the Shrikes’ playoff caliber pass rush, leaving Hannibal with not enough time to make a clean throw. Will did his best, but the spiral of the ball was too erratic and he was under heavy pressure himself from the Shrikes’ secondary defense. The ball bounced off his fingers and was ruled an incomplete pass.

The next ball was a short pass up the middle—easy to fire off quickly for short gains, a dink and dunk—but Will failed to get the prerequisite ten yards for another first down on that play too. Now, he was worried. If they didn't convert on the next play, the Ravenstags would be forced to punt the ball away on fourth down. Three yards was too great a distance for Hannibal to carry them across.

Coach Du Maurier passed orders to her lieutenants who began barking out a list of commands. Jimmy came off the field and was replaced by Franklyn Froideveaux, their bruising power-running back. The message to Hannibal was clear: _Move on from Will Graham experiment. It’s not working._

Will’s heart was breaking in a way he’d not felt since his mother died. _Was I wrong to think I belonged here_ , Will thought, but thoughts of his mother brought back her words to him on Draft Day. _“Remember, Will, there are only two things you can do when no one believes in you: you can prove them right or you can prove them wrong.”_

The Ravenstags had gone to a no-huddle offense in an attempt to wear down the opposing defense and create opportunities for the Ravenstags offense to take advantage of. This meant there was no opportunity to plead his case. Will and Hannibal shared a look, and Will hoped Hannibal understood how desperately he wanted to be given one last chance.

“Fifty-four is the mic! Cheese folk takes the rock!” Hannibal barked from the line, but he paused before calling for the snap and appeared to sigh. “Reverse free, Coorslight!” he added at the last moment reversing the previous call although only Will would know it since he had used one of Will’s college-era audibles.

“Z! Go to town on the snap!” Will shouted to his left. Meaning that Brian should cut back toward centerfield, drawing the two defenders presently on him and Will away.

Brian looked confused and glanced at the sideline where no confirmation was forthcoming since no one else knew that Hannibal had just scrapped the previous plan.

“Trust me!

The ball was snapped and Brian, bless him, did exactly as he was told, clearing the way for Will.  Will ran a flat route up the outside, not stopping until he had penetrated deep into their own territory. If Hannibal was serious about this last chance, he would wait for Will to get where he needed to be.

Will began to turn a second before he heard the whistle of the ball as it hurtled towards him. He caught it and ran for another ten yards into the end-zone for the second touchdown of the game. The crowd erupted in triumph. Chants of “wooo-whooo” and “yays” dominated the celebration, but mixed into that cacophony of noise was a discernible “Graham! Graham! Graham!”

Will spiked the ball into the ground and howled like a wolf towards the stands. The crowd loved it. Will’s teammates joined him in the endzone. There was joyful pushing and shoving while the refs shouted at them to clear the field. Will looked for Hannibal. He had hoped Hannibal would be there to congratulate him, but Hannibal was already off the field, receiving a lecture from Coach Du Maurier despite the results of their improvisation.

Will went for a cup of Gatorade, abandoning Hannibal to the heat, but Hannibal caught him trying to slink out of sight and mouthed the one word that would make Will want to brave Coach Du Maurier’s ire.

“Will,” he said silently and crooked his finger at Will beckoning him over. “Will' not William.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you,” Will said when he saddled up to the frying pan, preparing to join Hannibal in the fire.

“Don’t be obnoxious, William. We want to discuss this next series with you. Don’t we, Coach Du Maurier?”

The mood of the crowd suddenly changed when the Shrikes’ quarterback connected with his tight-end for a gain of twenty-seven yards.

Coach Du Maurier narrowed her yes and turned to Beverly Katz. “You deal with him. I have a defense to see to.”

Beverly sighed and when Hannibal smirked at her, she hit him across the chest with her clipboard. “Don’t you even start with me! I’m the one that will be up all night listening to her complain about you, jackass!”

“I have no desire to fight _you,_ Coach Katz. Tell us what you wish us to do, and we will execute it to perfection. Won’t we, William?”

Will rolled his eyes and considered asking Beverly if he could borrow that clipboard for a moment.

“Okay, I want you two to run some of the other new packages we discussed this week, but you have to PROMISE me that there won’t be any more freestyling. If we begin to abandon our game plans because of individuals, we’ve lost. We’re a team, and we have to do this together!”

Hannibal nodded and looked at Will. “Together then.”

…

The Ravenstags scored on each of their next two drives, which carried them all the way to the third quarter. Will already had nine receptions on eleven targets and was winking at that one hundred yard threshold. It was the first time he had ever put up the numbers of a #1 receiver, and there were still sixteen minutes left of gameplay.  It was safe to say that Will Graham had arrived, but there was one more thing he wanted that afternoon: one more touchdown. He’d gotten a taste for it now, and he was hungry.

Hannibal called for the snap. Will darted up the middle, ducking beneath the tall, muscled defensive tackles who were more interested in reaching Hannibal before he could launch another deadly touchdown pass.

Will escaped in time to catch a dart from Hannibal’s hand before Hannibal was brought down by the defense. Will booked it towards the goalline, aware that the defense was flexing and closing in around him. Hands grabbed him by the jersey. Gravity wrapped itself around his gut. Will crouched, then lunged, and stretched his arm out holding the ball with only one hand. He was close! So close! If the ball crossed the plane before Will’s knee hit the ground, it counted as a touchdown. _Dammit!_ _Why couldn’t I have just been a little taller!?!_ he complained to whatever higher power might exist.

The ground hit him from the front. The entire Minnesota secondary hit him from the back, and Will lay at the bottom of the dogpile trying to discern whether the crowd sounded happy or pissed.

Refs and Ravenstags alike fought to free Will from the Shrikes’ nest. Brian reached him first and pulled Will to his feet, greeting him with a headbutt and some good news.

“You did! You did it, buddy! Touchdown! Whoooooo!”

Will ripped off his helmet, which had come askew during the tackle, and wiped the tears from his cheeks. _I did it! I did, Mom! I’m a Ravenstag,_ he cheered silently, and for the first time...he believed it.

He looked around for the ball, hoping to give it to Abigail later, but one of the ball boys must have already removed it from the field. Will did find Hannibal however, striding towards him.

“Congratulations, Will,” he said and in a lower voice, one that only Will would hear above the crowd noise, he added, “This is your becoming.”

Will laughed. It most certainly was! And so much more. He slipped three fingers beneath Hannibal’s face mask and yanked him down to eye level. “No, it's ours.”

[](http://78.media.tumblr.com/ecd54d499fd01772103ade837939b251/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o3_1280.png)  
[Click to enlarge.](http://78.media.tumblr.com/ecd54d499fd01772103ade837939b251/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o3_1280.png)


	12. Murder Husbands

[](http://78.media.tumblr.com/fa78282ea6d650f141bdfb86c3ce48f5/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o5_1280.png)  
[Click to enlarge.](http://78.media.tumblr.com/fa78282ea6d650f141bdfb86c3ce48f5/tumblr_oxpap9ar1b1snh715o5_1280.png)

### Murder Husbands Say I Do  
by Freddie Lounds

Put away those party hats, people; it appears the Ravenstags are not dead yet. After devouring the Minnesota Shrikes, the team brushed off their 48-7 victory with their usual chilly attitude. “We came here to win a game. It’s what we do every Sunday. There was nothing special or personal about what happened tonight. We’ve already moved on to Seattle, and I suggest you do the same,” Ice Queen Bedelia Du Maurier told reporters, and I can only wonder if it is always winter in Baltimore.

But the story of the day, is not their jaw-dropping victory over a team considered by most experts to be a Super Bowl contender. No, the spotlight belongs to two men, Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. It seems the Ripper has found a new knife in Graham, a fourth year veteran of the team, and the League better begin to worry. Who knew the Ravenstags had such a sleek and nimble replacement waiting in the wings following the unexpected departure of Lecter’s former football flame, Randall Tier?

Other analysts are calling it a fluke, but don't make their mistake of writing Graham off as a one-hit wonder. Despite his angelic looks, there is a fire in that young man I've seen only once before...in a twenty-four year old Hannibal Lecter as he marched his team of underdogs to their first Super Bowl victory. Time will tell whether this was a marriage made by heaven or hell, but I can't wait to see what Coach Du Maurier and Offensive Coordinator Beverly Katz will do with this lethal duo in their labyrinthian offense.

So save the date—February 1st, 2015—when the Baltimore Ravenstags will almost assuredly take on their NFC opponent in Super Bowl 49. If the Murder Husbands play like this every Sunday, I honestly don't know who can stop them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the story, I'd love to hear from you! Here's the link to [Tumblr](http://kkachi35.tumblr.com/post/166317757997/heres-my-art-contribution-to-the-murder-husbands) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Red5WritingBy/status/918440146080620544) if you would like to help boost the signal. 
> 
> There's a lot more story that I'd like to tell (and in fact already have the outline for) so subscribe to the series if you'd like to receive alerts about Remember the Ravenstags Part 2. In the meantime, for more oddball AU funtimes, check out [Maneater](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9105502), my Jaws AU, and [Down Where It's Wetter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10940961), an Aquarium AU.
> 
> Thanks again to @kkachi35, @arydishope, @thez1337 for their help and to the wonderful leadership of @murder-husbands-big-bang!


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